Always and ever onward do the wheels of commerce churn,
To lathe the bait before you, comforts for which to yearn.
(Certain to keep you weak, even as they name you woke.)

Or else a brighter tomorrow, some better way we'll learn,
If but one more youthful flower casts itself into the quern.
(Perhaps even a chance to speak, if you'll only remain a spoke?)

Examine not our workings, we'd rather you not discern,
That the flywheel is a ratchet, with only one way it can turn.
(Do not even take a peek: every eyeful gets its poke!)

So wonder after rain when a rich stranger dons a cloak:
Smokes castles of air are built in chambers full of smoke.
(You can never catch a break, not while the system's broke.)

-Grek