The poem sketches a world where money has swallowed everything, even the most ordinary parts of life. People "breakfast on money," as if cash were food, and the ovens at work are all in use, suggesting constant production. The third stanza goes further: bread, a basic need, would "own" the mathematician and "buy out" the troublesome artist. Even people who work with ideas or who might resist the system get absorbed by it, one by one.
The last stanza is the quiet sting. The speaker says there's "no reason to say one word / against what they let be." That sounds calm, almost agreeable, but it reads as resignation. Only what "they" allow to exist is left, so complaining feels pointless, or maybe unsafe. The mood is flat, dry, and a little chilling. Nothing is shouted; the speaker simply reports how things are, and that matter-of-fact tone makes the loss of freedom feel even more complete.