The Eternity Shift

Tick. Tick. Eight fourteen. The fryer grease is thick, the floor is never clean. A purgatory painted in a corporate green. Staring at the clock until my vision goes blind Minimum wage for the maximum grind Just a ghost in an apron, dying to flee I would trade my own shadow for a master key. My boss goes Hey superstar! If you've got time to lean You've got time to grab a mop and make this lobby clean! We're a family here, so pitch right in Turn that tired posture to a winner's grin! A man in a tan suit at booth number four Slides a folded napkin right across the floor "Sign the line," he whispers with a corporate smile, "I'll buy your distressed asset, you can walk the mile. Just a minor little trade for your freedom tonight." I sign in red crayon, stepping into the light. The plumbing erupts, the kitchen's on fire! The water is rising higher and higher! The ceiling is crashing, the sirens all scream Keep smiling, keep upselling! Protect the dream! I'm out the glass doors, I'm tasting the air Leaving the ashes, the smoke, the despair I drive to my couch, crack a beer, I am free Look at the clock... it's exactly where it used to be. Eight fourteen. The walls melt away. A trillion dirty tables in a cavernous gray. "Welcome to eternity," the tan suit beams, "Where teamwork makes the nightmare of your wildest dreams. Grab a rag, superstar... time to clean."