back at the wheel by peycho kanev

the foreman screams at me
You, lazy bastard, pick that sofa up
what is wrong with you?
and I look thru the window and I can see
the birds flying free in the sky
and the damned sofa won’t move,
I didn’t had a day-off since three
weeks
just listen to the voice yelling at me
and the beautiful birds are not longer
in the sky.
this life reminds me of a bullet in the chamber
ready to go,
this life reminds me of apple eaten to 
the core,
this life reminds me 
of me.

at the end I pick up the sofa
and cursing and sweating
I think to myself:

all the smiles in the world are not enough;

the president is a bush in his own house;

Michael Moore is the greatest poet
of all.

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