unoriginalname38 – the blog of Dave Cole

PR man's ballad

As noone reads this blog, I feel quite comfortable posting this. This isn't how I feel at the moment, but if I continue as I am, I could see me feeling like this in the future.

PR man's ballad
(with thanks to George Orwell)

We are the dead,
The faceless army that crowds,
Onto the number eleven bus.

To spend ten hours,
Bent to out desks in the office,
Calling for meetings and faxes.

We work away,
Waiting for the weekend,
Which we waste by the TV.

Unless we have,
To cancel our drunken plans,
Because this work's for Monday.

Monday we return,
To type up meaningless notes,
Onto the computer screen.

Time off in lieu,
When everyone else is at work,
We wander the streets of London town.

The time we have,
To ourselves we spend asleep,
Or recovering by drinking and smoking.

We do not visit,
The galleries or the theatre or,
Even walk through London Fields.

Our holidays when,
They finally come are called
Leave, and have to be approved.

We spend them asleep,
Recharging for the return to work,
And never having time to be alive.

Now we retire,
After spending so long at work,
That we can't think what to do.

We are the dead,
Our hearts, our minds, what's left,
Of our strength on the banks of the Thames.

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