a job will slowly kill you

A heart that's full up like a landfill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won't heal.
You look so tired-unhappy,
bring down the government,
they don't, they don't speak for us.
I'll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide.

This is my final fit,
my final bellyache,
Such a pretty house and such a pretty garden.

Silent silence.
No alarms and no surprises, please.