The machine is cold
with its wavering luster.
It is us who are told
to be its court jester
our cheeks to the metal
it makes an incision
we musn't escape
it's cruel decision
it plucks all our feathers
like dumb barnyard chickens
and that is not where the metaphor ends
we caw and we squabble
while the machine bends
our necks
over the chopping block
and covers our heads, our faces
with the same dirty sock
we lay unaware
listening to the machine's constant snare
and bustle
and rustle
and it lets out some steam
and then we lose our heads
to the mean
wicked
machine