Melancholy math is all I do,
While I lie in bed thinking the hours through.
Three to nine, thats eight hours right?
Sleeping in the afternoon, not the night.
Sleep deprived all of the time.
I’m working, and I don’t gain a single dime.
Tick ticking quickly is the clock.
The calendar pages fall faster than a rock.
In reality the speeds are the same,
And I continue my counting game.
Counting down to opening the door,
To be trained to be a corporate whore.
Buy the supplies, crayons, pencils, pens.
Counting the price in tens.
This system has never been free,
No matter what lies they might tell me,
And being given praise for doing what I should,
Never did me any good.
So much time, so little work,
Slowly reversing, fast enough to make me go berserk.
Stand in this monotonous line,
Ready to pretend your fine.
Every blank page is ready for you to fill,
And they will tell you, melancholy math is a necessary skill.