Rich man purse

"What is this I See"
I say pointing to a house
"It is a noose sir" comes the mocking plea
"Or freedom for those with nouse".

"Nouse what meanest thou",
Comes my timid reply.
"It is the furling of devious brow"
The Devil excitedly cries.

"What of Brains, of freedom's thought"
I begin to heave and panic.
"Of today they mean precisely nought",
"In business they'd be calamic".

I stumble towards my destiny,
hoping for a clue.
But work get's the best-of-me,
I don't know what to do.

I'm told I live for freedom's sake,
but I line rich men's pocket's.
It is "democracy" I feel is fake,
And Business it's keep-sake locket.

Am I living, I'm sure I'm not,
I'm sure it's just a curse.
And when I break it down a lot,
I'll stop lining the rich man's purse.