A random poem (A Tribute to Jimmy B.)

Here I sit. In collections.
My butt is numb and my head throbs.
The coffee is old and weak
and bitter, like me.

I'm surrounded by laughter.
Salesmen who laugh, because it's not their problem.
Bosses who laugh, because it is my problem.
Customers who laugh, because they can.

They tell me stories. Grand, long stories.
Stories that include "the check is in the mail".
Stories, half of which would fail
even the sloppiest of lie detectors.

Here I sit. In collections.
My true talents being wasted.
But not forever.
Today, I beg and cajole for others gain.

But one day, soon, my dreams will be fulfilled.
One day, soon, my true calling will emerge.
For one day, soon, I shall plunder for my own gain.
I shall become the man I was meant to be.

A Pirate.

A Pirate can plunder and ravage
and steal and reap the rewards
of the industry of his own hands.
I would take from all and give to ME!

The sword is the law,
and my sword would rule
fairly, swiftly, with bigotry toward none
for all men bleed red.

Of course, I have to have a crew.
No ship runs itself.
They must be fed, clothed, paid.
And that would cost...money.

My money. My money that I now have to hide,
have to hoard, have to stow away.
My money, bought with other men's blood.
And they think it can just be given away!

Then one day, a sword whose law is
stronger than mine will come, and I will bleed gold and silver doubloons
until I am once again a slave to others.

I think I'll just sit here. In collections.