It Seems You Rub It In

I tried to come to work each day.
To do my job my very best.
To just forget my dwindling pay.
To put my bills and debts to rest.

To concentrate on selling parts.
Helping people.  Solve their needs.
This is where the trouble starts.
Bombarded by the filthy greed.

Constant tales of trips you’re taking.
Showing off your brand new gun.
Speaks of all the cash you’re making
Now my job don’t seem that fun.

Spending here and spending there.
Seems your money’s never ending.
Not a worry or a care.
Seems you constantly are spending.

Meanwhile all my thoughts race back,
to how it is that I am living.
Thoughts of work are now off track.
To me, a raise, why aren’t you giving?

I think it’s most distasteful,
toward this writer who’s your younger kin.
To spend your time so sadly wasteful.
It almost as if you rub it in.

Your riches don’t appeal to me.
They anger me, so much instead.
I’d rather them concealed instead.
I’m closing now, my piece is said.