Mongrel Howling: Work. A Reprise

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I have done this reprise of the Mongrel Verse that I wrote last week. In this version, I go into the subconscious and sometimes toxic relationship between workers/subordinates and managers/leaders/masters

I think that sometimes the mutual distrust simmers below the surface, and sometimes finds disastrous expression. This happened, for instance, in the Suzuki factory in India, where the workers burnt a manager alive. So, I don’t think that I am that far off.

This version has alternating (except at the end) verses by the leaders and the workers.

Here goes.

Master

Work, work, you little shit, work;                                                                                                                 Work on and on, and do not shirk.                                                                                                               You need to work, and make me rich;                                                                                                         Don’t argue either, you little bitch.

Worker-Slave

You make me work, so you can fly;                                                                                                               With lots of money, and things to buy.                                                                                                       Yet, you cut my pay – you cry and tell me,                                                                                                 Profits are down, and I must believe thee.

Master

I am your Lord, you are my slave;                                                                                                                 It’s my generosity that you must crave.                                                                                                     To be inspired, learn from the ants;                                                                                                             And realise it is I, who wears the pants.

Worker-Slave

I hear your words, from your honeyed mouth;                                                                                         We don’t believe you. Can you hear us shout?                                                                                         Behind glass doors, you wine and dine;                                                                                                     Yet don’t realise that we can dim your shine.

We know you well, you will exploit us;                                                                                                       Then o’er our bodies, you will roll a bus.                                                                                                   But, we can strike and raise our voice,                                                                                                         Will that leave you, with too much choice?

Master

You need to work, to make me rich;                                                                                                             And don’t complain, you little snitch.                                                                                                         The government’s mine, you little dork;                                                                                                   So, work and work, little shit, work.

 

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