Sunday Neurosis
Proles dread the impending dawn
Pointless toil awaits

Maintain the charade
Pretend your life has meaning
You're just worm fodder

Forty-five grim years
Of soul-crushing drudgery
Then comes the cancer

Super Gulp in hand
Waddling to the minivan
Judge Joe Brown at four

Bleak, freezing, sunless
The Yuletide is upon us
Does it have a chip?

Trashcans at the curb
Stuffed with the sad detritus
Of small meager lives

A truck's ground clearance
Is not an indicator
Of virility