by Thomas Hoskyns Leonard
A poem about institutionised bullying in the workplace
'But we need to sell more chocolate'
Cried the area manager,
Fawning his plushed up posterior,
'To demented screwballs, diabetics,
Who gives a shit?
Sell more chocolate, or your branch will surely close,
And the Capitalist system will of us dispose.
Lottery, fags, newspapers, Who gives a toss?
Turn on the heat, or it will be your loved ones' loss.'
"I'll employ the Georgie Gosbourne group bullying techniques,Sir,'
Replied Lady Gruoch, spitting down the phone,
"And our part-time underlings will be freezing for their fur,
I'll get my rocks off while I purr."
"Excuse me, Gruoch," said Cameron, a nice young man,
Looking more than usually bored,
"But I have an appointment for a clot test on Tuesday,
Can you rearrange my rota?"
"Tell your GP to take a hike," scowled the grumpy supervisor.
"You only sold thirty-five bars of chocolate last week,
Way beneath your quota.
And why do you have to see your tart from Peterhead on Sunday?
My Brulach always takes the brunt,
When t' others flake off like a load of cunts."
"But I'm on a zero hour contract," moaned Cameron,
Tucking his chequered shirt into his unkempt jeans,
"And treated little better than a Workfare volunteer.
I should be able to see my doctor or my girlfriend when I want to,
And when I pass on the stress with ample duress,
My dippy flatmate goes completely spare"
"Look here, you little runt," shrieked Gruoch,
"Forty more chocolate sales by Friday,
Or that will be your last pay day
And your stupid arse will bite the dust
And you'll find yourself starving and homeless,
After much incongruous fuss;
And don't come begging with your dubious favours
To my house,
Or I'll treat you like a piece of puss,"
"Excuse me, Miss," inquired a worthy customer,
"I'm not wishing to take the piss,
But this pork is five days past its due date
Your chicken moulds, and your Daily Mail has no centrefold."
"How dare you come in here with your pre-conceptions!"
Shrieked Lady Gruoch, in a right royal stew.
"And I saw you trying to steal a bar of Nestles.
Be off with you, before I mix you in my witch's brew!"
"She's just the same at home," moaned homely Brulach.
"Poor Macbeth can't get a moment's sleep,
And she treats me like an incongruous sheep,"
"It is the Capitalist system which is at fault," Cameron opined.
"She is but a cog in their mighty wheel,
The wheel which seeks to grind honest people into the dust,
The wheel which has to be derailed
From its foul century's old purpose.
But come the Revolution, all will change
And we will live in Valhalla,
While the oligarchs in Hades roast and freeze;
Then they'll be shaken drooping to their knees."
"You're so perceptive," purred Brulach,
With a deft, cat-like, deploy,
Giving Cameron's neck a remarkably incongruous kiss,
"Our great future together, I would never want to miss,"
Cameron felt fit to positively wilt.
"Include me out," he howled, full of guilt,
See also I AM NOT A SILENT POET
Thank you, Finola Scott!