Call you cog, where are the rolling-pins:
one above, one beneath, and you go in.
You are pancake, laundry pressed; thirty days free
and then if you don’t want our insurance,
say for if you lose your eye or get brain damage,
you just phone us and then we’ll probably
ask you more questions. And bewilder you
with excessive diarrhoeal information
machine-gunned in your ear with a metal feminine ring,
which no human person could possibly
take in all at once, which is of course
why we tell you we will send you the package,
hoping to our gods and Masonic friends
that you will accordingly forget about the whole thing
while we pull ten dollars out of your account every month
which is a good way to invent overdraft fees in case of deficient balance.
And in case you think we’re inefficient,
we assure you, we will see to it that it becomes deficient.
But never you mind; call you cog. You have a Mastercard,
and on the back in the black mysterious stripe
are gravid thousands of cogs for you
to utilize, which in turn turn cogs
that exist you know not where, nor what for,
though we do; we most certainly do.
For we are financial successes you see;
we are beyond old biblical terms, like usury.