I'm getting this feeling that everything's bought,
And starting to ponder on what God has wrought,
Or if not the Big Cheese, those guys with blue suits,
Who crave every asset from Chase to green shoots,
Unloading the dough as if it's burning their hands,
And then for some more stuff go hunt foreign lands.
Jeff Bezos, for examp', is raking it in,
With a rake as big as a Las Vegas inn,
And since his wealth is in money not feet,
And with just two shoes he walks warm and neat,
This means he can blow off the rest of his wad,
Purchasing Microsoft and half of Cape Cod.
Which explains why Timmy who come cuts my grass,
Fingers a timeclock with every row pass,
I asked why that was and he flourished his card,
Which attested his labor for Chad the Lawn Bard,
A division of Scrooge Inc., which is part of Groupe Sluice,
Whom the Pentagon contracts to keep Bagram spruce.
Young Tim says he checks in with every mown row,
Lest sneaky algorhyth's call him poke-slow,
And replace him with T.J. who runs all the time,
For his kids and a wife have to live on his dime.
If Tim gets twelve jobs and ten clients endorse,
He wins a Nespresso from Human Resource'.
Such is the world in this twenty-first cent',
Awash in this ocean of billions unspent,
Where all can be bought or at least well-controlled,
Be it lemonade stand or citizens polled.
It'd be nice to think that the peons don't mind,
But these things end often with payment in kind.