Quotidian

Our prospects fade, the hopeful rote survives.
Bewildered, overplayed and underpaid
We die preparing for our very lives.

Our pockets bulge with crumpled ones and fives;
With slacker jobs and dwindling Medicaid
Our prospects fade, the hopeful rote survives.

Anxiety eviscerates our drives
Relentless as the surgeon's sterile blade . . .
We die preparing for our very lives,

And pass the time in grubby corner dives,
Sniff sleepily, like dogs that have been spayed;
Our prospects fade, the hopeful rote survives.

Sometimes we flirt, as children play with knives--
Then back off, else the enemy invade.
We die preparing for our very lives,

Await the day maturity arrives . . .
On streets, in cars, we face the world afraid.
Our prospects fade, the hopeful rote survives;
We die preparing for our very lives.