THE WAREHOUSEMEN

it stinks in here
another midnight shift
endless.......heavy cartons
stacked, dropped, out of cadence...
as the red-haired, red-eyed boss yells at me

it happens all the time
my cigarette smoke doesn't have the nerve to move...
in this dank, humid, stale, trailer
i've had it with this
stinking sweat

calloused hands of a worker
mind of a poet
guts of a sparrow
a madman at twenty-one
too young to know the angles
too old to keep on going

my soul is warehoused
with all the others
the machine hums
it grinds us up
like hamburger meat
each tomorrow is the same

the weekends are desparate
booze, broads, searching
for what?
i don't know
the urinal smell
come celebrate!

this is the dance of a warehouseman
a song for the bent of back
the muscle of the city
while the rich sleep and bitch about taxes
we weep
we are the warehousemen