they sit in the sunlight
listening to the birds
making a close approximation
of work
when ever the boss
comes rolling in
on his golf cart
like a fat napoleon
checking the battle lines
before going back
to drink wine
and dine with prostitutes
in his gaudy tent
or palace
or whatever it is
bedazzled with colored glass
the finest styrofoam glassware
to hell with the environment
we will live forever
they shout
as the temperature
raises outside
all the while
the workers sweat and talk
but never quite
work
i find myself
rooting for them
to wile away
another day
milking the bloated teat
of the system
that takes
yet never quite
gives a fair shake
all while the birds sing
as that napoleonic bastard
drives around
with a smile and an evil eye
in equal measure