“Hey, kids congregate together
your pay’s light, close to nothing
but you serve here at my pleasure.
You’re ill/killed, well that’s alright—
there’s more around.
Don’t really care who’s dead or who’s sick—
there’s room underground.”

There’s Mandy and Bobby—on the floor they’re knelt.
Will it take them next out?
J-J-Jeff B. ain’t no pain felt.
He don’t care because he’s money-full.
Yeah, Jeff B. is wealth-obscene.
He’s gonna get the loot; all else is moot.
Wonder if he’s part of the MAGA scene?
J-J-J-Jeff B. snags the gelt.

“Hey, kid, you ain’t got a mask yet?
Say, never mind it—
for Jeff—me!—fill your basket.
You may survive—or not—just move products along.
If you beat the virus: Sure, that’d be sweet…
hope your immune system’s strong.”

There’s Randy and Bobbi at conveyor belt—
move goods, no time to pout?
J-J-J-Jeff B.’s mad for gelt.
You might say that he’s plunderful,
but Jeff B.’s bald o’ bean.
So hairdressing is moot for no-hair coot
His bony head has got a massive sheen:
J-J-J-Jeff B.’s got no pelt.

When randy and horny, with new urges felt,
he kicked his old mate out.
J-J-J-Jeff B.’s money belt
got hit but even when it’s half full,
yeah, Jeff B. still had green.
Worker-neglectful route to him is moot…
too busy measuring his massive means.
J-J-J-Jeff B. bathes in gelt.

Jeff B.’s wealthy, healthy, bald head.
Jeff B.’s stealthy-wealthy, all dread….