The Company Store

I loaded my quota of six more than ten.
I asked the accountant what more I owe then?
He said my days living have added one day,
But as far as my debt, I have much left to pay! 

T'was sixteen tons loaded and nothing to show.
Saint Peter, don't call me, you know I can't go.
My burden, my toil, this fruit-empty chore,
From pledging my soul to The Company Store.

And Jesus, I love you! Yes truly, I do!
And Buddha, Confucius, Muhammad, Lao Tzu!
Your saving is precious, abstract, and sublime.
I'd follow you duly, but haven't the time.

'Fore dawn, after dusk I thus shovel this coal,
I haven't seen sun since was sixteen years old.
Eternity beckons. Too bad I'm not free.
The Company Store is the owner of me. 

The slaveowner over my world-weary soul.

At the devil's direction I shovel this coal.
My debt keeps accruing by day and by night.
My karma, I beg thee relief from this plight! 

But karma lacks mercy; it's callous, and cold,

And takes its delight from the tears of my soul.

But the Five have compassion, and point out the way.

I'd like to walk on it, but debt I must pay.

My owners take payment from anguish of soul.

But had I some currency lustrous like gold,

To persuade them to grant me some breadth of reprieve,

To earn them more nuggets and win my release.

I loaded my quota of six more than ten.

I asked the accountant what more owe I then?

He said my days living have added one day,

But as far as my debt, I can never repay.

I presented a nugget, asked, "What trade you for?"

Said, "A day of reprieve from The Company Store."

"And if day after next, I present you with two?"

"Another two days you would certain accrue."

'Cause sixteen nigh worthless, but one nugget though...

Saint Pete, don't forsake me, one day I may go.

A mission, a calling, a fruit bearing more,

That wins me release from The Company Store.

----------------------------------

I haven't written in a while.  I started out  with this just being a poetry cover of Sixteen Tons, but then as I was writing it, it became it's own thing entirely.

Johnny B Goode

Oh Johnny! Oh Johnny! Oh won't you be good?!
You never do aught that you ought, that you should.
There's one thing I ask that you grant, if you would...
Thus your mom named you, so Johnny B Goode!

Countdown

Tickety tock!  Goes expert clock,
Which keeps the time, counts down to naught.
Frightening those bereft and fraught.
Tarry ye not.  So says the clock.