Arranged

Theirs is a high-rising life, arranged in columns or rows.

They don't have to be told to live thus. They just know

That the work is their life, the rewards not theirs to hold.

The know not to think about it, but they'll do it 'til too old,

'Til the time comes that they need shoving aside, and replaced.

There's no membership here. They're just bodies, fill space.

They don't ask what they work for or consider it, unseen.

This is right. It's assumed. To question is obscene.

They produce, but don't keep, distributed sustenance to score.

They just get their signal, get up, work some more.

When they're waking, they're working. They don't get much sleep,

and neither do we.