Poetry competition CLOSED 15th October 2013 2:34pm
WINNER
Grace (ldryad)
Grace (ldryad)
EARNING A LIVING
Anonymous
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Anonymous
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Anonymous
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ive got a horrible flu, a fn shame im diabetic
gettin money from my college so i bet i can get it
need a real job but i just volunteer
at the charity i used to steal from, full circle is here
im terrible in interviews i cant relax
shake hands and die inside he wipes the sweat on his slacks
-why do you think you would be good at this job
-i got a habit to feed im gonna work like a dog
i mean dog foods expensive
i mean i used to have a cat
ok you'll be in touch
see you around!
why did i say that?
gettin money from my college so i bet i can get it
need a real job but i just volunteer
at the charity i used to steal from, full circle is here
im terrible in interviews i cant relax
shake hands and die inside he wipes the sweat on his slacks
-why do you think you would be good at this job
-i got a habit to feed im gonna work like a dog
i mean dog foods expensive
i mean i used to have a cat
ok you'll be in touch
see you around!
why did i say that?
The Crap Queen
Here’s another story from inside the lab,
Just one of the many tales that I have.
You want to know what is the worst job of all?
Come closer, I’ll tell you, out here in the hall…
When testing for malabsorption syndromes,
The lab techs get sent into a conundrum
For deciding who will get to play
With all of the turd samples, collected that day.
It used to always end up as me,
The lowest on the totem pole, you see…
I’d often get stuck with a jar-like vat
Filled up for testing of fecal-fats.
Ah yes, the patient would sit
On the jar, and for three days, take a shit,
And collect all their poo in the specimen can
Then bring it on in for the testing scan.
It was always quite full, right up to the rim
And I had to stir it and mix it all in
To be sure the sample was the same all through,
Then here is the next thing, that I had to do:
I’d take a small portion and smear it on a slide,
With a coverslip and Sudan Orange dye
And then I’d heat the slide on the flame
Of a Bunsen burner, until it became
Liquid and flowing and then made a “Snap!”
Sound as the coverslip lifted, then dropped back.
After, cooking the poop and the stain,
I’d slide it right onto the microscope stage,
And look for the telltale globules of fat
That were released from heating and boiling all that.
So if you think your job leaves much to be desired,
Remember the shit that I’ve burned over fire….
Here’s another story from inside the lab,
Just one of the many tales that I have.
You want to know what is the worst job of all?
Come closer, I’ll tell you, out here in the hall…
When testing for malabsorption syndromes,
The lab techs get sent into a conundrum
For deciding who will get to play
With all of the turd samples, collected that day.
It used to always end up as me,
The lowest on the totem pole, you see…
I’d often get stuck with a jar-like vat
Filled up for testing of fecal-fats.
Ah yes, the patient would sit
On the jar, and for three days, take a shit,
And collect all their poo in the specimen can
Then bring it on in for the testing scan.
It was always quite full, right up to the rim
And I had to stir it and mix it all in
To be sure the sample was the same all through,
Then here is the next thing, that I had to do:
I’d take a small portion and smear it on a slide,
With a coverslip and Sudan Orange dye
And then I’d heat the slide on the flame
Of a Bunsen burner, until it became
Liquid and flowing and then made a “Snap!”
Sound as the coverslip lifted, then dropped back.
After, cooking the poop and the stain,
I’d slide it right onto the microscope stage,
And look for the telltale globules of fat
That were released from heating and boiling all that.
So if you think your job leaves much to be desired,
Remember the shit that I’ve burned over fire….
Anonymous
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Jobs when I was a student
I once had a job on a farm
Driving tractors with aplomb
Cutting cabbages in the rain
Was a bit of a bane
But rural bliss had its charm
At Christmas I worked in the post
Christmas cards, there was a host
I was cold in the street
Especially my feet
But when I got back there was toast
My next job was to inspect trees
To identify which had a disease
We walked up and down
To see which had turned brown
They were all clear, we were pleased
(new poem)
I once had a job on a farm
Driving tractors with aplomb
Cutting cabbages in the rain
Was a bit of a bane
But rural bliss had its charm
At Christmas I worked in the post
Christmas cards, there was a host
I was cold in the street
Especially my feet
But when I got back there was toast
My next job was to inspect trees
To identify which had a disease
We walked up and down
To see which had turned brown
They were all clear, we were pleased
(new poem)
Career Change
Of the reasons I've been told
For selling sex for money
Some are sad and some are bold
But this one's rather funny
There once was a butchers lass
Working behind the counter
Serving meat and taking cash
Happy to encounter
Soon she ceased to eat her meat
And vegetables became her food
This change of diet was complete
A vegetarian she was for good
Though handling meat was all she knew
The butcher's shop became a trauma
So she sought to start anew
As a prostitute in a sauna
Written 20 years ago, true story
Work should never defeat the thinking man
Open the big doors for fork lift trucks
Bringing massive tins of tomato pulp
To top up steaming vats of ketchup.
Then close the doors- to keep the flies out.
But the flies just entered with the trucks
To give more zest to the ketchup.
Protest labelled me a trouble maker
So they followed normal procedures
And promoted me to vegetable soup.
Lid up empty cans on a moving belt
To be filled with soup. First, I had
To drop five peas in each passing tin.
About to enter university
They thought I could count to five.
Practised my mental arithmetic
With every sequence of one to ten peas
In each can. They found out so promoted
Me again- to the really bad boys group.
They- final year engineering students-
Took full tins off a conveyor belt
And put them in boxes. Except, mostly,
They didn't. Putting good use to their studies
They got the machines to break down
Ten times a day, it seemed of their
Own volition.
The mechanic, reading his newspaper,
Would say it was to the company's benefit
That he should do nothing day after day.
But with the bad boys he had to work as
Never in his life.
The trouble with higher study
Is the jobs that follow need cleverer
Ways to avoid work or screw the system.
But that's what education is supposed
To teach you- isn't it?
Open the big doors for fork lift trucks
Bringing massive tins of tomato pulp
To top up steaming vats of ketchup.
Then close the doors- to keep the flies out.
But the flies just entered with the trucks
To give more zest to the ketchup.
Protest labelled me a trouble maker
So they followed normal procedures
And promoted me to vegetable soup.
Lid up empty cans on a moving belt
To be filled with soup. First, I had
To drop five peas in each passing tin.
About to enter university
They thought I could count to five.
Practised my mental arithmetic
With every sequence of one to ten peas
In each can. They found out so promoted
Me again- to the really bad boys group.
They- final year engineering students-
Took full tins off a conveyor belt
And put them in boxes. Except, mostly,
They didn't. Putting good use to their studies
They got the machines to break down
Ten times a day, it seemed of their
Own volition.
The mechanic, reading his newspaper,
Would say it was to the company's benefit
That he should do nothing day after day.
But with the bad boys he had to work as
Never in his life.
The trouble with higher study
Is the jobs that follow need cleverer
Ways to avoid work or screw the system.
But that's what education is supposed
To teach you- isn't it?
In a Suit
Teachers train you to forget,
bosses think they’re
heaven sent,
and family pressures
dress you down in brand names.
In a suit
and on the lamb,
from contracts written
in their hand,
a school, a job, a life
I can’t escape from.
Expecting dreams
to fade in time,
expounding you
to fall in line,
and kill the voice
that makes your mind
your own.
In a suit
and out of hope,
I kill my senses just to cope
with senseless streams
of un-burnt smoke
and mirrors.
Teachers train you to forget,
bosses think they’re
heaven sent,
and family pressures
dress you down in brand names.
In a suit
and on the lamb,
from contracts written
in their hand,
a school, a job, a life
I can’t escape from.
Expecting dreams
to fade in time,
expounding you
to fall in line,
and kill the voice
that makes your mind
your own.
In a suit
and out of hope,
I kill my senses just to cope
with senseless streams
of un-burnt smoke
and mirrors.
I HATE EVERYTHING ING
For years I slaved away
Cooking and frying, I paved the way
With streets made of grease,
The orders would never cease.
Fucking wings,
Onion rings!
To one point they bring me:
I hate everything i-n-g!
Deep baskets of french fries,
Fuck, just let me die.
Pies set me to crying
My soul is dipped and frying.
Fucking wings!
Onion rings!
The orders never stop.
Fucking wings!
Onion rings!
To one point they bring me:
I hate everything i-n-g!
For years I slaved away
Cooking and frying, I paved the way
With streets made of grease,
The orders would never cease.
Fucking wings,
Onion rings!
To one point they bring me:
I hate everything i-n-g!
Deep baskets of french fries,
Fuck, just let me die.
Pies set me to crying
My soul is dipped and frying.
Fucking wings!
Onion rings!
The orders never stop.
Fucking wings!
Onion rings!
To one point they bring me:
I hate everything i-n-g!
My First Job
Walking on the street of a growing city
holding on to my bag, feeling so hungry
at fifteen I had left my village
to look for something new
besides the paddy fields and the carabao
at the corner of a street
a new cafe, opened just a fortnight
a vacancy sign on a piece of paper
that says, we need a dishwasher
that day I became a dishwasher
I washed and washed and washed
plates and dishes and spoons
sitting on a stool, squatting
I washed a basin full and more
I was the dishwashing fool
I washed my hunger away
I washed my tears away
I washed my hurt away
bought me a shirt
paid my school fees
My first job
a dish washer.
Walking on the street of a growing city
holding on to my bag, feeling so hungry
at fifteen I had left my village
to look for something new
besides the paddy fields and the carabao
at the corner of a street
a new cafe, opened just a fortnight
a vacancy sign on a piece of paper
that says, we need a dishwasher
that day I became a dishwasher
I washed and washed and washed
plates and dishes and spoons
sitting on a stool, squatting
I washed a basin full and more
I was the dishwashing fool
I washed my hunger away
I washed my tears away
I washed my hurt away
bought me a shirt
paid my school fees
My first job
a dish washer.
"My Mantra: Magilla" by M.Y. Hand
Magilla, Magilla special deliver,
clumsy dilemma, civil familiar.
Little purple bow-tie wearer,
matching bowler and suspender.
Furry figured, thunder heeler,
motorwheeler, big spiller.
Innocent stealer, town pillar;
"Oh Gee," invite him to dinner.
Crimson shoes, short pants;
he'll make the news, he likes to dance.
He's pleased ta meetcha, the easiest creature.
He'll take your views, give him a chance.
Though time has done a bygone era,
he always was, and will forever
be my special banana peeler.
Today's Gorillaz, all killaz no fillaz:
yappers, zappers, rappers and cappers,
bass, face, and silly knee slappers.
That razzamatazz has done me none happier.
Magilla Gorilla, I'll always remember.
Barbera and Hanna were bestest of peoples.
Melvin; Morris, and Messick best Peebles.
But a good gorilla nobody will keep,
"I'm sorry Mr. Peebles."
"We'll try again next week."
Magilla, Magilla special deliver,
clumsy dilemma, civil familiar.
Little purple bow-tie wearer,
matching bowler and suspender.
Furry figured, thunder heeler,
motorwheeler, big spiller.
Innocent stealer, town pillar;
"Oh Gee," invite him to dinner.
Crimson shoes, short pants;
he'll make the news, he likes to dance.
He's pleased ta meetcha, the easiest creature.
He'll take your views, give him a chance.
Though time has done a bygone era,
he always was, and will forever
be my special banana peeler.
Today's Gorillaz, all killaz no fillaz:
yappers, zappers, rappers and cappers,
bass, face, and silly knee slappers.
That razzamatazz has done me none happier.
Magilla Gorilla, I'll always remember.
Barbera and Hanna were bestest of peoples.
Melvin; Morris, and Messick best Peebles.
But a good gorilla nobody will keep,
"I'm sorry Mr. Peebles."
"We'll try again next week."
Anonymous
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