04/01/2026
They handed us the crayon box, told us stay inside the lines,
Yeah we weren't reading between the signs, not our fault.
They sold us a script in a glossy neon sleeve,
Told us "Work until it hurts" and "Just believe."
Gold stars on the forehead, straight lines in the hall,
While they were busy building a much higher wall.
"Study hard for a degree." A mountain of debt and a "luxury" spree.
"Save your pennies in a jar." Inflation ate the engine while they bought a faster car.
"Climb the corporate ladder." The rungs are made of glass and the air is getting sadder. Meanwhile in the end matter,
We were sipping juice boxes, learning A-B-C,
While they were drafting blueprints for a private monopoly.
They told us "Sharing is caring" in the sandbox dirt,
Then patented the water and the logo on your shirt.
"Pull yourself up by your bootstraps," they say with a grin,
Forgetting they bought the factory the boots were made in.
It’s a rigged-up rhythm, a high-stakes hustle,
Where we provide the spirit and they flex the muscle.
Those Rising stairs that are supposed to keep you elevated are greased with oil,
While we’re trading all our daylight for some billionaire’s soil.
The "American Dream" was just a clever little lure,
To keep the gears turning and the wealthy secure.
Then there’s the biggest hustle, the one that hits the bone,
The "safety net" that leaves you feeling broke and all alone.
You pay the monthly tribute just to keep the wolves at bay,
But when the fever hits, they find a million ways to say:
"Out of network" (even though the building’s down the street).
"High deductible" (so you still can’t afford to eat).
"Prior auth"—while the paperwork just piles on the floor,
As the CEO buys a yacht and then a couple more.
The Reality Check
It’s a game of "heads they win" and "tails we pay the fee,"
Turning human wellness into a line on a degree.
They’ve monetized the heartbeat and they’ve taxed the very air,
Preaching "personal responsibility" from a golden swivel chair.
We were raised on myths of merit, but the math is looking cold,
It’s just a shiny wrapper for a story that’s been told.
Claiming titles to the pulse
That thrums beneath the skin.
A monthly tax on every breath,
A toll for every beat,
As if the soul were rented space
Upon a corporate street.
We trade our hours to keep the heart
In rhythmic, steady line,
Buying back the very blood
We’re told is "yours and mine."
Imagine if the forest
Had to pay to grow its leaves,
Or if the ocean bought the salt
That every current weaves.
But here we stand, the masters
Of a house we do not own,
Paying interest on the muscle
And the "privilege" of the bone.
