are dustspecked even more,
A desert yawns, the lazy maze;
In cubicles, the vulture lurks
The sun trips in as wanton ghost
(It is a feast of faded green):
Woe to the man who tries to shake
The burden of the paper rolls,
A bureaucracy approximates
The stiff bones of the rotting corpse.
The small man knocks in
timid notes -
The small man and his qualifying vouch -
A head is nudged in sullenness
And searches kin in blood and flesh:
whose son is he, what has he got?
who recommends, where is the hat?
Alas for him, he's not a limb,
He does not have, he does not cling.
And like the days, the
Are filed away in mindless nooks,
A desert yawns, the lazy maze
A system groans like a rusty hinge.