The fucking kids are whinging
|
They can't get a job;
|
The photocopy repair man
|
Is a smarmy smartarse knob;
|
I've been running this office
|
For so long I can't recall -
|
I've gone and pissed thirty years
|
Up against a wall.
|
|
"Good morning Mr Jenkins,"
|
The office girls all say;
|
"Gentlemen," I tell the board,
|
"What's the agenda for today?"
|
I play the part so desperately
|
Because the truth so appals:
|
I've gone and pissed thirty years
|
Up against a wall.
|
|
The fingers that knot my tie
|
Are fat with some success;
|
But they tremble - still so slightly,
|
So far only I notice:
|
In the far off wilderness
|
A lone hyena calls:
|
I've gone and pissed thirty years
|
Up against a wall.
|
|
Off I go to the men's room
|
For the seventh time today:
|
My bladder no longer hears me,
|
No matter what I say.
|
I count the tiles in front of me,
|
And wait as the trickle falls:
|
I've gone and pissed thirty years
|
Up against a wall.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Men's Room
|
| TISM |
