The worker, at their decreed hour, keys a code and wakes their beast.

The worker has limitless thought, deed and future potential.

The worker has incredible power at their fingertips.

The worker’s permission is to use barely one thousandth.

The worker keys customer choices into a closed system.

The worker is fed from an ever-replenished stack of forms.

The worker keys an account number, clicks on a choice, moves on.

The worker’s spent forms go in the collation and archive tray.

The worker churns forms for seven hours, every working day.

The worker has to complete a set number of forms per day.

The worker is financially penalised for slower days.

The worker must input loo and drink breaks to tracking software.

The worker’s pay covers rent and limited data for their phone.

The worker aspires to wear a Ralph Lauren shirt, like the boss.

The worker dreams of Cornish holidays, like the managers.

The worker lusts for breakfast bacon butties, with fresh squeezed juice.

The worker wins best processer, their manager speaks to them.

The worker’s trophy sits by someone else’s screen the next week.

The worker tries another process, for their development.

The worker’s choice-input groove turns out to be a deep, deep rut.

The worker’s management decide they’re not capable of change.

The worker is told they’ve found their niche, to have pride in their work.

The worker’s mind imagines, creates worlds within doomed worlds.

The worker’s thought-prowess decays inversely with input speed.

The worker is a whole, entire human, reduced to mouse clicks.

The worker wonders if they have a point, and what that might be.

The worker dreams of riches, and forgets to forget the dream.

The worker sits listless before TV; dreaming of the day.

The worker counts blessings, sleeps hard, and wishes for a best friend.