Satan's order sent me flying to the store of volume buying,
And with a spell, the lord of hell, compelled me well through sliding doors.
There before me loomed a fogey, probably pre-dating Bogie,
Could the man be old and logy? Not to go by his loud roar.
His call of insincerity rang throughout the bland décor:
"Welcome to (this) Wal-Mart (store)."
Crazed and anxious swarms of shoppers ("Look! I see a deal on jodhpurs!")
Roved the aisles with carts and baskets, eyes aflame, like troops at war.
Surely, thought I, in upheaval, this retailer's utter evil,
Borders on the medieval, black heart beating at its core.
For a raft of concrete reasons, I this mega-dump deplore.
Wal-Mart pisses me, d'accord?
Unpaid overtime is one sin. Two, their glass ceiling for women.
Three, they use sweatshops in China, getting rich on Asia's poor.
Wal-Mart's known for bait-and-switching -- buyer beware of bewitching --
And if you should bother bitching, you'll be swiftly shown the door,
Chased by cries of, "Get out. Stay out. You're unwelcome, 'Michael Moore.'
You've blasphemed a Wal-Mart store."
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