Lapsing

I've heard the only cure
Is leaving for good:
Putting this drone-factory behind you
And never looking back.
It's nice for those who can,
But I shall not be free
Due to this town's enormous lack
Of jobs that pay well
And are still flexible enough for me to be me.

Not that I am free--
By that I mean free to be me
Instead of a mere entity
Inside a tired body.
Beyond those doors I'm a corporate slave,
With my mind in the wasteland
And one foot in the grave
Among the vast legions of retail Undead.
While company directives claw inside my head.

Trick or treat;
Smell my feet,
Give me tasty brains to eat.
There's none too big
And none too small,
'Cause if there's brains I'll eat them all.

They peruse the costumes
And fake shrunken heads
Unaware that the help
Is soul-less Undead.
We give them direction
And take great pains
Though their questions are sometimes stupid.
They won't miss their brains.

We feel vague joy
Though we are somewhat bereft.
A friend chose the eternal cure
And hurriedly left.
Hurry: swiftly fly away
And be a human while there is still time to play.

The rest of us remain here.
If there is time
We will barbecue brains
And have a beer.
And then go back to work.