This is a poem about an imaginary spy.
Many years ago, I did become a mole,
All I had to do was sign away my soul.
But now I’m getting weary of this game,
I want something new, but each day is the same;
I can’t see my boss, but I know that he is there,
He keeps me on the leash and in the snare.
I’m controlled the way I control my slaves:
Fear is used to guide how each behaves,
Although sometimes a carrot stick is used,
To keep the slaves contented and amused.
Year by year, I’m getting closer to the end,
And I find it ever harder to pretend
That things will get better in this dank hole,
It’s time for me to be put on the dole.
But if my boss hasn’t liked all my works,
He’ll take away my income and its perks;
I know I won’t escape from this tight box,
I’m bound by covenants and hard padlocks.
If they want to, they can take away my soul,
And put it in a fish in some fishbowl,
And then they can observe me till I die,
Then perhaps put my soul into a fly;
And when they’re angry, they can have some fun,
They’ll try to swat me down, to kill or stun.
But when they tire of me underfoot,
I will become a cold machine’s input,
And I will have to await a later day,
When another mole is need in the fray.
And they will decide to re-insert my soul
Into a human or into a darkened troll,
And then the cycle will thus begin anew,
And I will hate all I will have to do…
And the businessmen of the earth will cry and weep for her [Babylon]. They will be sad because now there is no one to buy the things they sell. They sell gold, silver, jewels, pearls, fine linen cloth, purple cloth, silk, and red cloth…. They sell the bodies and souls of men.
—Revelation 18:11-13 (ICB, abridged)