Routine Kills

When you wake and you fall,
from your bed to the hall,
from your bowl you will reel,
from your shoes to the wheel,
from your car you will cross,
from your hate to your boss,
from your screen you will land,
from your pen to your hand
from your lunch you will break,
from your paper you'll wake,
from the desk to your car,
and from there to the bar.

From the bar, you can't quite see
and in the car you're not quite free
as you'd wish when twenty three
but that's quite a fantasy.
From the gear you're not quite there
and the break you can't quite tear
as that single snap of hair
lets you know you hit her square.