All good things have symbols,
Logos, and/or icons.
The golden M is Micky D’s.
The word”Nikon” is Nikon’s.
Now this is great for products
And for things you buy and sell,
But have you once considered
Other ways this works well?
Take a dollar symbol,
Which stands for money that we make.
Have you ever noticed
That it’s a pole-dancing snake?
Or how about the three curved lines
That indicate Wi-Fi.
They’re nothing but a magic drill
Descending from the sky.
What’s a symbol for your workplace?
A necktie does the trick
Because it’s both a hangman’s noose
And an arrow towards someone’s dick.
If I were a symbol
I’d be this guy: & Yup.
(I originally wanted to be an 8
But some artist messed up).
This poem’s for the people
Who work lousy hours
For the “that be”-ing powers.
These rhymes are for tellers
And checkers and chaps
Who wear store-logo polos
And maybe ball caps.
This verse is for plumbers
And sellers of pot.
Thanks for doing your thing
So that I need not.
I had a lunch hour at my old job,
But that just wasn’t enough.
I need some time in the middle of the day
To just relax and stuff.
I told my boss about my plight.
Now I take two hours instead
To eat my meal and check my mail
And generally clear my head.
Still, my malaise remained in place,
Even when I took
My two 15-minute breaks
Before and after my lunch nook.
Now my lunch is 16 hours
And I’m darn pleased to heck.
Self employment’s really something,
But I wish they’d send my check.
My best friend is a hired gun.
At first I thought his job was fun,
But changed my mind when came the year
He worked the job as a volunteer.
I complained about my cubicle,
Saying it was too small,
And since it was rectangular
Was not a cube at all.
Now I’m living in a box
In back alley, USA.
I guess complaining didn’t help,
But my box is a cube, so yay?
I took a trip to the great wall
On my quest to see it all.
I enjoyed myself a bit more than a little.
Stupid you might call it,
But I’m afraid I left my wallet
Somewhere between the ending and the middle.
To make up for such bad luck
I had to make a buck
To get back to my home, off in Regina.
That’s how the story goes:
To solve my money woes
I was forced to be a maid in China.
I became a mafioso
As a way to pay my bills,
As well as for the infamy
And the less-than-legal thrills.
I thought I was a renegade,
Far away from “nine to five.”
As it turns out a life of crime
Is a fairly blasé jive.
I wake up in the morning
And I drink my coffee black
While I eat a few calzone
And plan the day’s attack.
Then I hop into my auto
And I collect the cash
From those under my “protection”
And the guys who sell my hash.
I rob some banks, but get no thanks.
I work weekends all the time.
I cause some wrecks and stack the decks
But I’m un-fulfilled by crime.
At the end of the day we wise-guys,
Goodfellas, and Made-men
Sleep off our indiscretions
And then do it all again.
So here’s my two weeks notice
With all this crook’s respect.
I’m getting out, just hoping
Papa Gino don’t object.
They say I’m a workaholic
‘Cause I spend twelve hours a day
Away from Mabbs (my wife) and kids.
It’s the commercial fishing way.
Truth is, work gives me joy
That I just don’t get from Mabbs.
At work I catch the lobsters,
But with her I catch the crabs.