However.
"Memories of a Boss in an Ad Agency."
"He walked around dictating what could
be his profit in his necessity.
Jingling the balls of his coins in his pants pocket.
He was money, and money talks.
He talked and was the one whose talk we sickened at.
Nausea was his atmosphere.
Open an office door at his shop and ahh, panicked appeared.
We froze.
That was his sex.
He told me when I quit, power is what I want,
the way you want to be a whore.
You think you'll stop getting screwed just because you're
leaving here.
No way, you're made for it.
He laughed until he coughed the cum of his life up
and spat it in my ear.
So I gave birth to this economically maladjusted poem."