Hickory, diggory, dock,
The gears turn tight in the polished clock.
Up and down go the dutiful feet,
Marching to time on a winding street,
Meticulously oiled, obedient and neat,
For the masters above in the velvet seat.
To them, we are whiskers, a pulse in a cage,
Just tiny experiments scratching the page.
We race up the minute, we sprint down the hour,
Fueling the gears of the engines of power.
And when we obey and complete the grim game,
A scrap is tossed down—just enough to remain.
For they built this grand tower of marble and brass,
A playground reserved for the ruling class.
The levers of state, by the avaricious grown,
Are greased with the sweat of the sweat of our own.
A labyrinth spun by unscrupulous hands,
Tailored to fit just their corporate demands.
We scurry through mazes we never designed,
Trapped in the clockwork they left us behind.
Hickory, diggory, ticking away—
How long till the mice learn to weather the fray,
And stop climbing upward to service the sway
Of the watchers who profit by sealing our day?
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