The endless days of paperwork; the writing, typing, coffee drinking,

Are days that leave me griping, typing, coffee drinking in the nighttime.

 

How could a person enjoy a desk,

That barren landscape long and bland?

Why the habit of paper white,

and walls the color of weathered sand?

 

Each day the same routine, the same walk, the same talk,

I cannot understand these men, in suits as black as ship’s caulk.

 

The copy and paste itinerary, from one day to the next,

Is enough to drive me crazy, and more than a little vexed.

 

No one could pay me to live in an office, no matter what career,

The older I grow up, however, there is a growing fear,

That I will be that man, who every day walks into here,

A grey glass building furnished with laminated plywood,

An earthly purgatory of despair, a dull life stuck in the mud.

 

This life is not for me,

Pray, archetypal cold businessman, replace me in this lair.

So I will not be the one to lose my hair, over spreadsheets filled with squares.

A cold desolate world of black ink, for which I do not care.