Red aluminium can upon the desk,
White scribe line is the graced print;
I become an advertiser through it.
Key chain reps a galaxy far far away,
From shirt to shoes, I represent the capitalist.
I am the walking billboard for the masses.
What if I advertised myself,
The books most vital to my soul etched into skin,
Dialogues of Plato tableau-depicted on my back?
I’d become the amalgam of ideas,
No closer to representing myself,
Still advertising the other.
To advertise myself, I must be bare,
Empty of all branded clothes,
(How the steer snarls when branded! )
Empty of all branded ideas.
Oh capitalism, my birthright,
Wouldn’t it be better
If I didn’t have to advertise at all?