Humorous Poetry: Workl’odes

Neanderthal

By Thomas O. Davenport

The workplace seems so civilized
Genteel behavior’s highly prized
And yet our stone age DNA
Dictates the way we work today

A meeting’s just a battleground
Where savage conflicts still abound
For if my rival wants to tussle
He’ll feel my prehistoric muscle

I’ll rend his flesh and crack his bones
With verbal sticks, virtual stones
I’ll seize his throat and squeeze but good
I’d take his donuts, if I could

It’s clear from how we all behave
We’re just one step beyond the cave
In truth, we’ve not evolved at all
Look in the mirror, Neanderthal

By Thomas O. Davenport

My focus on work is intense
To pile up both dollars and cents
Laboring away, trading effort for pay
My future, I fear, is past tense

Careers, I have learned, slip away
They’ll cart me away one fine day
A watch made of gold won’t help when I’m old
Best pump up my 401(k)

For a job’s an ephemeral notion
Undeserving of rites of devotion
No point to bemoan, we’re all on our own
Any progress requires locomotion

It’s tragic but true, we’re displaceable
Like off-the-shelf parts we’re replaceable
The job I am on tomorrow is gone
So my business card is erasable

By Thomas O. Davenport

I am a modern troglodyte
I dig through numbers day and night
Exploring in a data mine
To see what nuggets I can find

The work’s not fun, I will admit
I frequently grow tired of it
I work each day from sun to sun
And why? They pay me by the ton

But if this mine, which I deplore,
Should cave in, ceiling crash to floor
My clock will surely end up punched
And I, not numbers, will be crunched

By Thomas O. Davenport

On top of all the stress and strain
I face at work each day
It seems my body is not fit
To toil the modern way

I’ve carpal tunnel in my wrist
I’m blinded by my screen
My brain would be a soft gray blob
If it weren’t for caffeine

I guzzle lattes all day long
And with what consequence?
I’ve merely aggravated my
Lactose intolerance

I hearken back to olden times
When work required vigor
For what has desk-bound toil produced?
A case of mortis rigor

My arms and legs have wasted ‘way
There’s little sinew there
The only muscle I have left
Is in my derrière

By Thomas O. Davenport

I sit here, angry, bored, depressed
I’d hoped that I’d be headed west

But now, I think, the gods of flight
Are sure to punish me tonight

The plane is full, I’m not alone
We’re all stuck here, inert as stone

We’re stranded now, or so we’re told
Because the air aloft’s too cold

This could cause an electric storm
Because the air down here’s too warm

I think that there’s a broken part
And so the plane just will not start

In truth, why did they make us wait?
Perhaps just this: the pilot’s late

It sometimes seems I’ll spend my life
Experiencing pain and strife

For airplane travel strains the heart
And stresses every body part

And yet, the time will come one day
I’ll shed this mortal coil away

On that day, when I’m heaven-bound
I’ll know, at last, I’m off the ground

By Thomas O. Davenport

When finally my call went through,
Here’s what the techie said:
“There’s little I can do for you.
“I’m sad to say – it’s dead.”

The tears of grief streamed down my face
My faith was all but gone
“Is there no hope, not one small chance
That I might yet log on?”

He rolled his eyes, then shook his head
At least, that was my sense
His words did fill my heart with dread:
“Your problem is immense.”

“I fear your central APS
Has fully melted down.
Your storage buckets are a mess
Your schmeckle drive’s unsound.”

“Perhaps a triple code bypass…
But no, that won’t succeed.”
I felt so desperate, alas
That I began to plead

His final words, all he could say
To spare me from my sorrow:
“Please stay on hold all day to day,
Or call us back tomorrow.”