Company Man

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Isaac Newton hugged his inventions,
paper lovers, close to his chest.
Dad didn’t.
He handed them over at the Company’s behest.

The Company gave him a car,
a Humber Snipe,
the Company gave him a reason for life.
Mum didn’t.

The Company loved him.
So did Mum.
But the Company squeezed his heart in a vice,
it was faithless.
It winked and capered.

Dad lugged his soul that the Company bent
to the side of the grave, a short dark bed.
‘I feel crook,’ he said
and lumbered in.

Mum said,
‘They’ve been good to us
considering.’

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