Ain’t no creature comforts, many peons dying
as gigantic blocks of rock they’re forced to slide
up inclines; a slaver is the strange guy who reigns.
There’s torn flesh and broken bones; it’s hot outside.

(On them blocks an egg’s easy to fry)

Creepy mummies tombed in the dark chambers of vaults.
Mouths in rictus, the passed Pharoahs who depart
are “asleep” deep in there, the royal lair. . .
not fun but funereal air.
They’re drained of blood, the muslin is tight-knit.
In coming years explorers find them, make their mark.

A latter-day pharoah ascends the throne: Mubar’k.

Phar’onic job is a bad one, and you can’t pick
and choose—even worse than working at Wal-Mart—
in it a plight might be to get fired:
you get a scare, but they don’t care.
Xerxes won’t set you free. . .beyond despair.
Toe the line and find you might not die if you’re smart.

Keep to yourself every anti-Pharaoh remark
and to a happy afterlife you might embark.
Year’s later to past years Egypto-Disney harks,
and the pyramids are reborn as a theme park.