Preamble of a Straitjacket...
Preamble of a Straitjacket... Pt 1
The tidel wave of beeps and clicks
From all the phones and computers
Sound like it's World War two in here,
Which could cause anyone to crack,
It feels like my whole world is stuck
Inside one giant Rubik's Cube;
Grinding its gears eternally
Deep within my own figure eight.
The time of the world matters not,
It could be the first century,
They say it's the future again,
But, it's just as young for today
As it was last century since,
Is it the Reagan years again?
Or, is Nixon back from the grave?
Life is still a bitch anyway.
The walls are eight by four by eight,
The coffee replaced our blood
With liquid fire full of hot fear,
But, not as hostile as the clock
Perched on the wall like the Sun
Laughing at us all with pure ire,
Bush, Reagan, and Nixon wedded]
To form our loathsome employer.
We are perhaps the only folks
Here that are legal criminals,
We've never seen the judge's gavel
Nor the mosquitoes that you know
As lawyers who suck your life's blood,
But, we're still locked up in H.E.L.L.,
The punishment is long hour work,
Yet, our crime is legal spying.
Our company is named H.E.L.L.,
Hallmark Employment Lobby Lodge,
This "lodge" is just a skyscraper,
Hiding behind its public name,
Its real goal is keeping secrets,
The kind that most companies hide
From the public or its workers,
That is, except for, the eighth floor.
This floor is called "The Ghost Floor,"
You will never find the eighth floor,
There is, though, another "Ghost Floor",
This is the famous thirteenth floor,
Another floor you'll never find,
Legally these floors don't exist,
My floor makes me feel so dirty
I feel like taking two showers.
The outside company logo
Is a gold plated figure eight;
The Latin phrase at the bottom
Says, "Abyssus Est Eternus,
Simply put, "Hell is Forever,"
Not all cages can be broken,
A cage that is invisible
Is a cage you won't escape from.
Sometimes some workers go insane,
We keep them on the "Loony Floor;"
Another floor that can't be find,
The windows echo the Sun's gleam,
The windows are shaded inside,
You can even look at the Sun
For hours without going blind,
But you'd be punished for it!
The windows are suicide-proof,
You'd have to run at your top speed
Just to have a chance at fleeing
This legalized-prison-like maze,
If you went forty miles per hour
You'd probably make it right through,
If you killed yourself at home
Your employment record dissolves.
This means that the IRS can't touch them
As they steal back your 401 K's,
Stock options, and all your money;
Even if you hid your money
In some kind of Swiss Bank Account,
We work from eight in the morning
To sometime after eight o'clock,
Day after day, clock in clock out.
Even the mice that spin their wheels
Can at least keep themselves in shape,
But, most of us get overweight,
Then most of our brains turn to mush
Because we're only allowed tasks
That never end and are boring,
Our workplace looks like a labyrinth;
The kind that lab rats know too well.
We call both floors Ghost One or Two
The eighth floor is known as Ghost One
But the thirteenth floor is Ghost Two,
To enter any of these floors
You must type the secret numbers
Found at the bottom-most panel,
Ghost one is coded three-two-three,
Ghost two is one-four-zero-eight.
In both of these treacherous floors
There's no such thing as worker's rights,
On this floor, Rights are like the Moon,
Always seen, heard of, never felt,
The cameras always zoom in
On every action you take,
They probably have cameras
Hidden in every bathroom!
Females are expected to have
The Barbie Doll body figure,
The males are expected to be
The Ken Doll body figure type,
The females are to be silent,
The males are even more silent,
Death is your only option out.
You do not legally exist,
Which means you are just a splinter
In the ass of society,
If you resign your employment
Then you'll never work in this town
Or this whole state ever again,
That goes for suspension as well,
There is no retirement here.
Our boss is a dastardly dog,
The kind that always shatters you
Into billions of endless tears,
He is so great at what he does;
You'd call him an evil genius,
Imagine Scrooge and Katrina
Coming together as one beast,
He wrote the book on skinflinting!
He is a short, flabby, bulldog
Sitting in a big leather chair,
He smokes a big Cuban cigar
About the size of a ruler,
Making up for the smaller one
Buried deep within his trousers,
You're paid enough so you won't leave;
But you have to hunt down your check.
On average, the pay is good;
But you will never get a raise
Or move up a station or two
Save for your extra services,
To move up in life and stand tall
You must always keep your head down
Under his table and swallow
More than just your ornery pride!
How do you think I got my clout
In this upside down profession?
I could describe every speck
Of detail under his table,
When it's over there's lots of gum
That helps with the taste in your mouth,
I remember finding one piece
That tasted like strawberry lime!
They entice you in this sector
With promises of 401 K's
Fringe benefits and stock options,
But you will never enjoy them
As soon as you accept this job,
This job is so very stressful
That nobody lives past fifty,
You always die of some illness.
I wouldn't even be surprised
If they still kept asbestos hid
Deep in the ceiling above us;
Or in the ventilation shafts!
All workers shall get lung cancer
Because, everyone is smoking,
'round every corner on this floor
You see "Thank You for Smoking" signs.
I remember the old maxim
"Yes, there is fungus among us,"
But there's dog hair everywhere,
Which makes me sneeze once and a while,
"That which doesn't kill can only
Makes you stronger" said a wise man,
But, the Spring is only strongest
Just before the coming Winter.
The only thing we are in life
Are ghosts that tap on your shoulder,
We are the pairs of eyes spying
Behind a veil of privacy,
Imagine using privacy
To take away your privacy,
We are the shadows in the fog,
We're everywhere yet nowhere.
You see, we're all company spies,
Our job is to collect info
On what you buy and how often,
After we've gotten what we need
You'll get that annoying junk mail,
You know, the type that offers you
Low interest credit card loans;
But then, they jack up the prices.
We are the basset hounds that dig
Up all the dirty little secrets
That you've tried to hide, scrap, or shred,
Sometimes, online, we will send you
Those ads that say "you're a winner,"
Then you type your email address
To claim your notorious prize,
But you know you'll never get it.
Forty percent of the workers
Are Basset Hounds working nonstop,
Forty percent are all Bloodhounds,
Ten percent are all equine
But the rest are Vulpes Vulpes,
We're all looking out for ourselves,
Whether by action or species
We're lowdown, under handing dogs.
I'm cursed being a red fox;
Mainly being the new leader,
I still hear the boss whispering
The childish nicknames about me
As I walk out of his office,
My job is to make new software
That allows web bugs to remain
The unseen eye on the public.
I'm most likely the Firm's mascot
Seeing as I wear its symbols
In the form of a gold button
That's in the middle of my tie,
I also wear an gold earring
That is the same exact symbol
Just at the tip of my left ear,
It's also branded on my ass!
The boss makes me walk all around
Without any pants or boxers,
My shirt isn't long enough to hide
My shame from any onlookers,
Everyone sees the Firm's brand
That the boss burnt on me, himself,
After a while of this charade
They don't seem to notice or care.
After a few years of this spiel
The only upshot that exists
Is that I feel comfortable
With myself and my surroundings,
The boss doesn't allow the others
To take that kind of liberty,
He says that if he allowed it
We would all turn into hippies.
I don't go out on any dates,
I'm single and I'm not looking,
I guess I've never considered
Any side of the playing field
To where I might be partial to,
All I know is how to survive,
Though I'm just another male fox;
I still take good care of myself.
Some think that I'm the office slut;
But I happen to think of it
As another way to survive
Here in The Big Rotten Apple,
The only friends I've ever had
Are the cockroaches where I live,
They seem to have a better life
To live than I can imagine.
My name is Mitch Vernon Tailor,
I have been known as "Mitch the Bitch,"
I'm also known as "Vern the Worm,"
And, of course, "Tailor the Failure,"
All of which, are for clear reasons
That I'm not too proud to lay claim,
I'm known to be the worst leader
Ever put, or kept, in this job.
Sometimes I ask myself questions
Like, "Why do they still keep me here?"
Then I chew the gum in my mouth
And say, "Oh, I remember now!"
Since there is no way out of here
The only place to go is up;
But I have never been the one
To make a fuss or rock the boat.
Maybe that's how I got my names?
At least I know my place in life,
Which is much more than collecting
All the flavors of the rainbow
Stuck up right underneath his desk,
Usually he keeps me drowning
In a huge sea of paperwork;
Just to make sure I keep quiet.
I'm sitting here in the middle
Section 'twixt the door and window,
I am the eighth Sub-Group leader
On the eighth section in this maze,
I know everybody here
But no one knows me in person,
Being the ghost with the most helps
Me keep my anonymity.
Just above our heads you can hear
Elevator Muzak playing,
It's enough to put you to sleep,
The craziest thing in this job
Isn't the long hours or the pay,
It's all of the elevators!
They will always glitch or shut down,
At least they play good rock music.
My elevator, however,
Only plays Stairway to Heaven,
Except, it keeps skipping nonstop!
God, I wish this thing would snap off
Along with me trapped inside it!
This should be the stairway to hell,
Nothing like a fox in a box
Wishing I had some kind of pox.
They still give us midday breaks here,
Lunch is donuts and plastic fruit,
It's sugary food that helps you
Program nonstop without real food,
Our liquid diet consists of:
Burnt coffee, soda, and Red Bull,
Plastic food makes for plastic friends,
You have fifteen minutes to eat!
There's only one way to go
When you've worked here for twelve years,
It's either up or down once dead,
I've got as far up the latter
That any fox is permitted,
So, how should I off myself right?
Shall I do it quick or slowly?
Should I write a small death poem?
Then I noticed the humming sound
About four feet above my head,
It was a steel fan with one blade
That constantly slashed the air;
Like an ax murderer set free,
After the poem was written
I grabbed a nearby stapler,
Then I stapled it to my shirt.
I sat down in my cubical
To give everyone my note
Via email and printer,
I'm sure nobody cared,
It doesn't really have to matter,
Life is just mind over matter,
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter,
Life has no point except to live.
Next stop, infamous the break room,
As I made my way through the isles
I heard someone laugh behind me,
It was just another newbie
Criticizing me with his eyes,
His nametag said, "Hi! My name's Mitch,"
He'll have to find out the hard way,
At last, I made it to the room.
I quickly turned the switch off,
I had no six-foot rope at hand,
But, I could use my lucky tie,
It was the very dog collar
That had become my livery,
It was my entrance to this job,
Now, it will be my exit out.
Lucky me, it wasn't a clip on!
The fan was bolted to the top,
The fan's strength was very well made,
It could hold two of me up there,
With a sly grin, I got to work,
This would be the perfect time now
For it was almost his break time,
He normally gets his full hour,
I'm allowed thirty minutes.
Whilst in the break room I planned
Out how I would do it just right,
All I needed to do was flip
The switch, by the door, with my foot,
Yet, my leg was too short to reach,
(Good thing I still had the stapler,)
I lightly flung it at the switch,
The fan hummed right back to life!
Now I'm tied with my fate,
Now I've knotted the grim reaper,
Once the fan could turn no longer
I kicked the table underneath
To let gravity take effect,
As the immense pressure mounted;
I felt like my eyes would explode,
Then my tongue started to hang out.
By then, the last breath was only
A deep sigh and a death rattle,
My blue eyes were still wide-awake;
Like black holes just waiting to suck
Any soul out, if looked through,
He came in five minutes later
With a sterile look in his eye.
Pop. culture tells us certain truths
About some aspects of your death,
What they don't tell you is the fact
That from five to seven minutes
You can still hear, see, and feel things,
The rest of the brain's time is spent
Waiting for that elusive light
At the end of that long tunnel.
How do I know all this, you say?
Because, I could see him enter
The break room with pomp and panache,
I could hear those Italian shoes
Marching in the silent white room,
I could smell those Cuban cigars
Wringing out my stomach again,
But, I couldn't move or scream at all!
As my boss turned to look up
At my corpse swinging gently,
He tripped right over the stapler;
Which made him ruin his Cuban,
I though I still had the last laugh
But, he still got it after all,
He took my note to blow his nose,
Then, he stuck it inside my mouth.
He whipped out another cigar,
With a couple of puffs, he finished,
He then, yanked my tail o'erhead,
Then he spread both of my cheeks wide
Just so he could stick the burnt end
Right through the eye of the needle,
He struck the left cheek as he said
"Ha! Another one bites the dust!"
Just now, I remembered one fact
About any executions
Either made by strangulation
Or my favorite; a hanging,
I think it's known as Angel Lust,
This made a bit of sense right now,
Because, I wear no pants to work now,
My flag is stiff but at half-mast.
As he left the break area
He must have called in H.E.L.L.'s fuzz;
Because two able bodied guys
Unhooked me from my hanger,
No doubt, they'll cover my death up,
I'm sure the other workers read
My note with a scoff or a laugh,
This note is written thus below:
To Whom It May Concern:
Are we the zombies
Who live; work; and die
In the cubicles?
Do they bury us
Deep in paperwork?
Are we the bodies
Inside the morgues
In our cubbyholes?
Have they pushed us
In our pine boxes?
No wonder it feels
Like an icebox here,
Throw down your nooses
That you Ants have worn
As your shirts and ties!
Or, they shall hang you
With no tit for tat!
Feed them to the fire!
You are made free now!
© As of 2009