Poetry in motion

An exceptionally hot and slow day at work today, so I've written some off-the-wall poetry for you all to... ehm... enjoy. Ahem. *knocks on microphone* Is this thing on? Ok, here we go:

"Lament for a sales-person"

T'was the middle of June, on a day warm as Hell;
My shirt was getting sticky - my feet were as well.
Not a customer in sight, not one single soul;
We'd have to sell our grandmas to reach the budget goal.

I pondered this predicament; I pondered it long -
If I don't get my bonus, this will be my swan-song!
My mind was a flurry, my pulse raising high
- because of the coffee I just spilt on my thigh.

Then along came a maiden - and this was no tramp
- and ordered two cabinets and one Peavey amp!
And just after that a young lad made my day,
by buying a wireless system - whahey!

And thus my desperation was somewhat decreased,
by selling some products made in the Far East.
The moral, you say, to this long, dreary tale?
Get a job in Management, not in Sale. *

* I wish I could say that this last line you see,
was conjured, produced and then written by me.
It did not, however, come from my brain-stem
- this killer last line was written by M.


For this next little bit, I'd like to state that I've never watched more than 3 or 4 minutes of "The Apprentice" at a time: apart from the brain-numbing stupidity of the show, Mr. Trump's "hair" make me giggle uncontrollably.

"Ode to Donald Trump"

There are many a thing that I wish I could say,
'bout this fake piece of hair that we call a "toupee"
But the truth - short and sweet - 'bout this hairy chapeau?
No matter how elaborate, it still looks quite faux.


Let's all hope for some more action tomorrow, since more poetry of this calibre would surely threaten the sanity of both the author and the reader in the long run. You've been warned.