Performed at the ‘A Load of Poets’ open mic poetry night at 1200 Postcards, Hastings, on 14th September 2023.

I wrote this rhyme
on company time; 
Am I now a professional writer? 
It’s not exactly highly paid –  
Money couldn’t be tighter. 

I sold my soul  
to get off the dole; 
Surrendered to market forces. 
Went on shitty training courses. 
Got a job, 
Shut my gob, 
Said yes to the boss, 
Though he was a nob. 

I’ve worked my life throughout, 
Day in, day out. 
In return for hours of alienation 
I get remuneration 
Which rises slower than inflation. 
My bonuses are a humiliation. 

It’s a honey trap, 
But the money’s crap. 
I want to do something else – 
Something for myself – 
So I’ve quietly quit 
That working shit. 
I’m still on the payroll, 
But I contribute sod all. 

They said to go and work from home, 
Gave me a laptop and a phone; 
But my study is a cell, 
A comfortable prison hell. 
I feel incarcerated, 
an animal domesticated. 
I sulk and I rage, 
Rattle the bars of my cage. 
I don’t go into any office 
I stay in bed and take the piss.
It’s anarchy all bloody day; 
I don’t let work get in the way. 
I do just enough, 
Then work on other stuff – 
Write a poem, read a book; 
I don’t really give a fuck. 

I search for the meaning of life, but fail 
I can’t find it in zoom calls and email. 
I don’t care about the company’s sales, 
I don’t mind if the business fails. 
I’m hanging on by my fingernails. 
I’m a career fatality 
With a negative mentality. 
Sack me, please! 
I want to walk among trees, 
and swim in salty seas. 
Make me redundant – 
My thanks would be abundant. 
I’m counting the days 
Until I can laze 
On a beach in early retirement; 
It’s the only idea 
In the working year 
That gives me any excitement. 

Oh, wait – 
The mortgage payment’s late. 
I need to stay
For just one more payday.
Christmas is near. 
Maybe one more year, 
Then I’ll quit  
this shit. 

I’d become a monk, 
Make art from junk 
That would never sell; 
My finances would go to hell. 
I’d take up Pilates, 
Throw three-day parties. 
I’d be out on the street, 
With nothing to eat, 
But at least I’d be free 
Of this soul-destroying 
corporate 
drudgery. 

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