by Frank Baugh

Created on: June 30, 2009

The Valley of the Kings

Requiem for a Telemarketer

He sits in his cubicle with his headset on

As a beautiful day of life

Absolutely rages outside without him

Letting the fluorescent lights

Suck the pigment from his skin

Chameleon like he assumes

The dull gray of the cubicle

He takes the abuse of a self-aggrandizing boss

Who takes pride in his title of bossing

-That's all he will ever have-

That means absolutely nothing

Other than he has the whip of poverty

To flourish over the heads of his charges

And that makes him feel real good

And the dream goes on

-Can't call it a nightmare-

Of success and failure

And oppression and depression

To limp home after a day of rejection

To the dream of his apartment box slot

Infested with spouse, spent diapers

And discontent

Prop his beer-leaden eyes open

And upload the tripe on the television

Of big breasted, beautiful women

Who don't look anything like his wife

And perfect witty men with perfect teeth

Who don't look anything like his child

Dealing witty sexual innuendos

Living lies he never can

But fantasy is okay, too

And he'll mentally masturbate

Seeing himself finding lost tombs

In the Valley of the Kings

With fine-rumped blonde assistants

With British accents and perfect hips

Always ready and willing

To consume and mother his perfect genes

The evening is rent with the ringing phone

As a gray collector calls to say

The dreams are past due

And threaten with mechanical tones

Pleasantly breathed threats

Of the end of it all

From a cubicle somewhere

Greyly lit with life-sucking light

The wife beckons to the bed

With outstretched arms

Poison, spiteful, spittle

And resentful parted thighs

Hoping to resurrect the long ago dream

Of what she thought he was

But no one can ever be

Her man in the Valley of the Kings

Just another day in the life

Of the man in the Valley of the Kings

Who can only rediscover

Wrapped dead corpses of lies

He disseminates his life gift

Into the vapid void of vague

Slowly plodding toward his mark on the world

Of a small gravestone no one ever seeks

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