Looking back, this 10-year-old poem takes a rather harsh look at a post-college temp gig (mostly I don’t hold nearly so much disdain for my coworkers as I apparently did then). But the fact that I wrote this on the job, in my cubicle, is still a work-slacking triumph that stirs pride for my snotty 22-year-old self.
T’was the month before Christmas and I sold my soul
To [redacted]’s data-entry and filing patrol.
The folders were nestled all snug in their drawers
While I entered numbers for all 90 stores.
Stars of David were hung in the kitchen with care,
In rebellion against all the Christmas crap there.
And no one quite knew just who’d had the balls
To write things in Hebrew when decking the halls.
In my cubicle, nestled amongst all the crap,
I’d just settled in for my mid-morning nap,
And lulled by the sounds of those suckers still typing,
I dreamed better jobs in the sleep I was swiping.
And so in the pose of ideal corporate tool,
I awoke in my gathering puddle of drool
When what by my nearsighted eyes should be seen
But errors galore on my IBM screen?
Then up from saliva I sprang with a splash
And heaving computer parts into the trash,
I hopped o’er the cubicle and gave out a yell,
“I’m through with this temp-working boring-ass hell!
“I’ve had it with all of your corporate crap,
Your forms and your filing, your Christmassy pap,
Illiterate workers and mind-numbing work.
It’s time to ask Santa to bring you a clerk
“Who’ll make all the copies and beg you for more,
Who won’t Judaize your Christmas décor.
Call me lazy or stupid or mean or a snob,
But I’m jingle fed up with this holiday job!”
Then floating about me, invoices in shreds
Came snowflaking down upon all of their heads;
In the wake of my tirade a calm so serene
O’er my redneck-filled Chanukah Wonderland scene.
Then I fled from the building in holiday cheer
For I knew the true meaning of Christmas that year.
So now, with my heart set in festive enjoyment,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all unemployment!