Last Free Man

The city wakes in morn

Streets so endlessly torn

Men of business and stature wake

Only seconds from sewers

Where those of lesser merit demure

All in a town so imperfectly perfect

Alas, what can one expect?

Only minutes from midday

Do those of importance fear delay

The work of the nation implores them

As time slowly pours into the PM

Souls to be sold, wages to be earned

One must never tarry, and never leave any life unturned

For the city must consume them, with its endless take

Not even in the highest palaces can business take a lunch break

 Not even the cascading chime of urban swine

Locked in cars honking their horns

Can stop the endless dourine

Oh, what a bore

Underneath, sleeps slowly

A man in a sewer he calls holy

Late for a job he never learned to hate

Without wages to be garnished

Lay the last free man untarnished

Not slave to any corporate king

Lay the leader of his own thing

He wakes only at the edge of dusk

And crawls out of his homely musk

Marching forward, soldier in an army of one

He lives as freedom’s last son

Him and his brothers prance on

Until they see the coming of dawn

The city wakes at night

Streets screaming in delight

 

Author's Note

An attempt at a bit of observational poetry