Screwed on tight
By hands surrounding 
Face and brain
And legs and 
   throbbing genitals
They all want something
For a price
That sells
   upon the marketplace of
      greed
         and corporate need
            and family deed
And someone's solemn creed
That buries every soul
Before it has a chance to live

The pressing fog
Clamps roughly
Down within my throat
And clogs the message
Of desire
It blasts around the edges
And pledges 
To tie my bleeding cells
To hooks that drag me to that
   old pine box
      that calls within the ground

(c) 1996 James Oliver Smith, Jr