Death of a Factory Worker

Death of a Factory Worker
by Quasimofo Snyder

Two kids at home, one on the hijinx way,
the beatnik dry-docks with pretty ink black ap—
Gesture staves draught
in an air conned mint pepper rink; the pay’s
good for a fifty mile block—a fast food cap
past, flips more clout.

The bop of assembly, the be of boredom…
Saucy french stole the place in the 80’s—
louisiana purchase reneged;
dumb rum drunk in a monotone kingdom
punchin’ clock’s wards, journey to mind’s wheeze freeze,
and gorge raunchy woman’s jokes. Whig-

out? Naw. Monopoly can’t be all that evil...
After a while, muscles will work for you,
and you drift from coils to coitus.
That’s when blues jazz crept level, that wac devil!
-Who monk eyed evol’s gumdrop, made you moo.
Thank g{G)od for layoffs, unemployment’s always a plus.