I’m tired of the ways of this cruel world,

I’m tired of the greed of owners and tech lords,

I’m tired of our inability to find shared purpose.

But in this moment, I’m tired most of Baby-Bosses holding us all back. 

For two decades I've wandered this economy,

Maturing grey by its collapsing endeavor.

I don’t blame the rich for their greed, it has always been so,

I don’t blame the poor for their destitution, we have made it so,

But the Baby-Boss I do blame, for at the crossroads they exist.

Who has shielded the rich’s avid poaching for personal gain?

Who has voted to empower the wealthy’s political reflection?

Who has acted the fist of the rich’s abhorrent delinquency?

I’m tired of Baby-Bosses reacting like valiant, headless chickens,

Bawking emissaries of their owner’s selfish fright.

I’m tired of them being the worst gossipers and slanderers,

Tearing the greater community for personal gain and ease.

I’m tired of their verbal abuse that stresses workers needlessly,

All so they can freely express their useless rage and disgust.

I’m tired of them feeling like superheroes or communal saints,

Thinking their lone genius or divinity is saving everything.

These Baby-Bosses require workers to float in a nervous disorder,

So they may feel as gods among children and sedate their insecurities,

Those deep fears of getting old, growing weak, or being criticized.

Acting as the biggest victims, yet having more prosperity than most,

Everyday they wake to a stable and decent job, only to complain and moan.

They feel sorry for themselves, sad workers didn't perform to expectation,

Frustrated that some part of their mundane job didn’t go to perfect plan.

They cower thinking about a loss of production,

Of not attaining some superficial aesthetic to mirror themselves in,

Of loosing their coveted social status and its slumberous benefit,

Or of not increasing value for their erratic owners need.

These Baby-Bosses sit behind their paperwork, number crunching,

Comforted by their stocked salaries and unchanging routines,

Espousing their lonely, hard-working brilliance as a guiding flame,

All of which was gifted to them by a prosperous past economy,

Bequeathed by the hard work and blood of former generations.

But they are ungrateful, unacknowledging the effort others endowed,

They walk unaware of the bones holding the soil together at foot,

Their words have forgotten gratefulness, their steps disregard patience!

And these Baby-Bosses go home to their comfortable lives,

They get in their cars, driving far from gritty workplaces to pets and families,

Smiling joyously in their communities, their spiritual, charity or interest groups.

They go home to a stable life that their workers will never enjoy,

Those vastly underpaid workers, the precariat, the contracted, abused and wage-slaved.

But it is an economy held in place by the pride of these dutiful Baby-Bosses.

And they have convinced themselves that none could do it as them,

That they are the final process, an end result, perfection achieved,

They are the reemergence of Egypt’s eternal state,

They are the height of Rome’s administrative might,

The Managers of Mithra,

Stoics for the powerful,

Such is their arrogance,

Brought low shall it be.

For from the past the future calls,

The first to last, the last to first,

Them with most can always lose much,

Them with little have everything to gain.

The disempowered many will humbly ascend,

The wealthy and powerful wallow at every end.