Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Poems: Confessions of a Service Advisor

I fear therein the skin I'm in has grown thin.
I can't muster up the willpower to win.
People surround me in this horrible place.
All glued to the paper in this financial race.
Who wins in the end?
Will we ever see glory?
Battle with no blood shed, doesn't mean allegory.
I just realized, they blinded my eyes, I was hypnotized.
But still I must fight for the dying night light inside my camp site.
A couple grand I must take, so my checks in the bank 
can pay for the meal that sits on my plate.

Sir, your car shit the bed. 
You will need new heads, but first let me warn you our tech's a crackhead.
The car you drove in is already in route, he took it and stole it.
It's getting cleaned out.
I could get it back. Fifty grand to buy out.
And we know you have the paper,
just your bentley could buy me ten acres,
a farm and a vineyard, a brand spankin new bank card 
with a pin I could discard, and a saint bernard, on my boulevard
that could check your ID card, when you drop your guard, 
to throw shards in my avant-garde front yard.

Visa or Mastercard?
All up to you, but your american express card just won't do.
We can't afford to give those miles to you.
So go home to your wife and cry about life, stab your maid with a knife. I feel for your strife.
The food on my plate is still worth the debate.
I work for a man with a pension plan, who can't understand why I need a floor plan.
He has no kids and a truck as big as your bad luck who refuses to pay
to hear what I have to say, since I cannot bespeak, I'm here six days a week.
Call when you decide if that coupe's worth the ride.

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