They pre-cum in your direction,
when they glimpse the yellow flash of your staff tag,
a dinky ball and chain.
A painful, psychological brand that cuts to cauterize,
bites and licks,
till the marrow of your being,
glows pink with
Then they get in your face,
and any youthful dreams of temporary narcissism blush,
One more here.
Oh, just your anthropomorphic handover,
You’re now regularized,
You’ll tend to the beasts,
Swinging commercialism and to-and-fro.
Ready to bite the hand that might enable their sickness
To go on breathing,
Angry at everything without knowing why,
But smiling in front of their contemporary’s eyes.
They snatch at your service,
Then spin toward the counter,
Leaving a stink like diluted perfume, sweat and disregard…
Then you lie to their vile shadow and say…
Seasons Greetings humans.