In a previous life I worked in an office filled with people I dubbed “the everchildren”. You know the type; they finish university and get a job doing something “cool”, stay living with their parents until their mid forties and spend all their money on video games, gadgets, and action figures which they never even play with. I guess for a while I was in danger of becoming like them. However, the hellish monotony of the job, and the questionable ethics of the company (a topic for another time) instead merely made me angry and miserable in equal measure. I wrote this poem on a particularly bad day (contains colourful language):
Ticka tacka ticka tacka all you ever hear,
Co-workers shoot sideways glances, betraying their fear
Of the thoughts they think are floating through your tired head,
If only they knew the ways you’d love to see them dead.
Strangled, skewered, blunt force trauma, oh to count the ways
That you dream of employing to help them end their days!
Burnt alive or maybe rounded up into a truck,
Driven off a cliff – you guys are just shit out of luck.
Throw them in a vat of acid, watch them fucking burn,
Rig an iPhone with explosives (will they never learn?)
Their avarice disgusts you: refuse to compromise!
Vow that you will never be the thing that you despise.
You look up from your screen and still the bastards are alive,
Their smug fuck conversations cause your temperature to rise
To boiling point; you clench your fists, decide that this is it,
You save yourself by screaming out: “I quit, I quit, I QUIT!”
DISCLAIMER: I am not a homicidal maniac. The poem was an expression of frustration, not a game plan.