What is This Life? What's He Mean?

What is this life, I ask you, if not constant crowd control?
You start off in a hospital, and end up in a hole.
You’re marched from school to school, sent forth, and then from job to job,
And drive a bloody caravan like every other slob.

That tea with Alfred Prufrock sadly failed to change your mind,
Only reinforcing views that you’re the Walter Mitty kind.
Though Big Brother is impassive, as you try to slip away,
The White Bubble may well catch you, as you swim across the bay.

“I’m a man, and not a number!” is a noble sentiment,
But if nobody is listening, then it’s breath that’s poorly spent.
So you stand in line and worry that your passport may be lost;
No escape and no identity – existence has a cost.

“Would you like a new PIN number, and a unique username?
Very sorry, but your documents were all put to the flame!
But we dearly crave your custom, and will gladly come to call,
To confirm you’re not a brick in our almighty business wall.”

Yes, we’re all part of the tribe, and must do what we can to cope,
Or else seek a bleak oblivion, with a necklace made of rope.
There’s more meaning if we seek it, Reader, don’t mistake my theme,
I am actually an optimist; salvation is my dream!