Eight To Five Slavery

Please explain to her,
That it is no longer important,
Nor necessary,
To be comfounded,
In a dreary eight to five imprisonment,
In order to make it in life…

Tell her please,
The office,
Is no longer like what she used to know it before.
The office is everywhere nowdays.
Let her know,
That I never put on any suits anymore,
Yet I can make a livin’
Without the damned eight to five slavery…

You see,
Mama is adamant for me,
To get a proper job.
She has sent endless emissaries,
To urgue her case before me.
I’ve explained in million times,
But she won’t understand,
She won’t understand,
How I make it in this big city,
Without an eight to five slavery…

Explain to her,
Explain to her please,
That with the following wizardly,
I can make it big in this big city,
Without an eight to five slavery…

Google Mail,
Google Search,
My Space,
Aha mama,
they are too many…
These are tools that keep the eight to five slavery at bay.

These are my tools.
These are my ruses to muse.
I am a merchandise of thoughts.
I am a trader of concepts.
I am a creator of content.
The whole universe is my office.
I work in slippers,
I work barechested sometimes,
Nodding my head to the NeoSoul or some other strange music,
As you call it.
Mama, an eight to five slavery will curtail my freedoms…

I am a free soul mama,
Willing to fly anywhere,
Willing to think anything,
Willing to feel everything,
Willing to hear everyone.
Therefore mama,
This eight to five slavery thing,
Will kill me completely.
My spirit will be dead…
My soul will be gone…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013


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