Cursed The Void
He's passed out for the night.
Lived in one house all his life.
You can count the decades in his eyes.
Fifty year old fistfights and the scars they leave.
All the aweful liars, all the perfect thieves.
But he trusts in the rule of law and hates the current scapegoats.
Never asked for more.
And what will he have to show for the years of faithful service
hard work, faithful service
and standardized routines.
And when he dies alone with nothing in hand, burned out shell of a working man, when he dies alone with empty hands.
How long will the body lie before someone walking by notices the smell, calls the cops and they come and put him in a box marked with a number.
Somewhere past the city limits somebody pulls his file, stamps it void and throws it on a pile.
We take care of our own.
At least on paper.
We take care of our own.
And he gets his number.
