Vice Verse 1, Pt. 1.

I once met a man who called himself whore
he wasn't selling sex, he worked in a store
he equated his job to selling his soul
equated his fellows to slobs, moles and trolls

glassy-eyed staring, he ranted and raved
how having a job was sick and depraved

for

he was born for more
than being a whore
fortune was foretold
to wash upon his shore

no more stocking the shelves,
no more having to help
every one for themselves
and divided he fell

rumors of cutbacks were floated 'mongst the whores
the store's staff was bloated, there'll be firings galore
but his job was safe, indespensible, secure
of this he was certain, positive, sure

he showed up next morn at the door to the store
was told his services were needed no more
his job was exported o'seas to Belgrave
where whore is still better than slave

And the boss of the store waved his flag
Had his best year in years, he bragged
then a quick gust of wind
blew the flag from his hand
to the hands of a man torn and ragged

the man torn and ragged was Bob
the man who'd onced whored for a job
unemployed for two years
reconsidered his peers
and the crowd gathered round turned to mob

Bob'd become one with his neighbors
Boss called them one and all "traitors"
but neighbors and Bob
had been around the blog
said "thanks but you've failed as our savior"

all that is sold is a product of labor
slices of pie are cut with a razor
and the cut cuts the pie and people
who shut all the doors and seal off the steeple
claim all their minutes and command the cable
pull the wool o'er their eyes and oilcloth the table
putting the people into the fable
under penalty of law, removing the label.