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i'll post a poem that I wrote this lunch break, how about that?
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I hate my job, it hates me back.
I cannot wait to get the sack.
My job was meant for some poor jerk,
Just smart enough to do the work,
But lacking brains, imagination,
Enough to realise that his station
Is less fun than masturbation.
I hate you, job, and you hate me,
Or else you'd pay me properly,
And treat me like a human being.
You think that I'm not always seeing
Other people, doing less,
Without the constant lies and stress,
Whose lives are not a bloody mess,
Whose heads don't need a cold compress,
Who sleep without wine's sweet caress,
To whom the thought of work is, yes,
A happy one and not duress?
Do I sound bitter? No BS.
You would not treat me like a bitch.
You would my bank account enrich.
You would not make me do the job,
Of every useless lazy slob,
Who doesn't feel they have to do,
The tasks their contract tells them to.
You'd treat me sweet, and nice, and kind,
If, job, you loved me, you will find.
Instead my spirit down you grind,
And poison my subconscious mind.
Morale, your profits, intertwined.
You'll realise this once I've resigned. |
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