The saints of hustle descend upon the unfulfilled,
And proselytize of their victims’ future fortune
If only they’ll grit their teeth and grind…grind…grind…
From the other side of their mouths they’ll remind
Their quarry that grit isn’t enough and suggest
They also create a clever new design…design…design…
Monetize your hobbies and even your downtime
Such that your rest isn’t for its own sake.
No, it should fuel your growth. Refine…refine…refine…
Turn your back on the sacred gospel of grind
And these false prophets will ask for your ROI on rest.
The only alternative: from grindstone to gravestone…gravestone…gravestone…
What from these efficiency evangelists are you given?
In exchange for your tithes of time, a side hustle siphon,
Leeching life drop by drop—selling freedom, delivered in golden chains…chains…chains…
Passive income (maybe) and active suffering (for sure),
You’re worshiping the false idols of productivity,
And they’re selling you revenue streams of exhaustion…exhaustion…exhaustion…
A mansion built on burnout—handcuffs golden, but handcuffs still.
You automate ambition, forget you’re just the customer.
All these saints really sell you is your own deficiency…deficiency…deficiency…
And still, you keep buying.
Willingly.
Eagerly.
Loudly.
Preaching the same gospel,
That we might kneel beside you too.
You’re not their prophet;
You are their profit…profit…profit…
