Paper Salesman

He entered a young lad,

Golden locks and dreams, big.

Today he finally leaves

Bald head veiled by a fancy wig.

Days after days, he bargained,

Seldom with buyers, often with self,

Submitting his life to the

Hyped bi-quarterly bonus check.

Went home at seven, and slept

To the glass of wine, English choir.

Woke the next morning,

And drove back to the same chair.

Thirty years he sold paper,

Yet, never wrote a single page.