To the final tick,
The final tock,
That sings you out of work.
Or should we say that number swap,
From 9 to 0 on a digital clock;
Granting your most treasured perk:

To leave on time; that shackled room,
Where your body gradually degrades.
While profiteers sell off your soul,
To improve stock market trades.

Your life of labour; spent beside a screen
Making money to give form to a fat-cat’s dream.

Don’t let them tell you that you are free,
Each day, you spend in fiscal slavery.
To live you must work… so you work to live.
You’re too tired to enjoy what life you have left,
So you slink to your bed, a nightmare of regret.

And when you wake you fill your tank,
ready for another day, you corporate plank.