Poetry at Work.

I think that I should never work,
With midgets, clowns, or random jerks.
I know that I would rage away,
And not do any work those days.

The rage would not be at the clowns,
Who tumble, bumble, and sometimes frown.
Those merry makers are kinda neat,
With ugly hats and floppy feet.

And midgets, if I can call them that,
Certainly deserve no flak.
And they would not get any from me,
Less they hurt me at my knees.

But it's the random jerks you see,
Who fill me up with rage daily.
They are such goddamn fucking pricks,
That I would punch them in the dick.

A dick-punch, you say? How rude, how crass,
But easier than kissing ass.
For these jerks do not seem to see,
That retail is not slavery.

Mine is not the part to play,
Granter of their wish-per-day.
I have a service that fills a need,
And it isn't to do their shallow deeds.

I wish the day would come to soon,
That someone would please make me swoon.
And take the random jerks away,
To somewhere far from my gaze.

But I'll be patient and I'll wait,
Until that very special date.
And I'll hold back that special dick-punch,
Because my story is over, I'm back from lunch.

Later.