Mister Boss calls me into his office.
I try to remember all the
things I could have done wrong
that would provoke such a request.
I came to work three minutes late.
My shirt, was not tucked in.
My mother's lectures about how I have an
attitude problem suddenly come to mind.
As a rule, corporations treat employees
by assigning daily humiliating tasks:
Groveling, Taking it up the Ass,
Cleaning the entire store.
There his fat ass sits comfortably
on a foam padded pleather chair.
He extends his hand in a "sit here" motion.
A cold brown metal chair is there.
He talks about "being professional"
and things like "working faster".
Damn, I took my time to milk that fucking fat cow
corporation as much as I could.
My hours, he explains
have been cut down to two hours a week.
"You have to prove to me that
I can trust you".
That prick tries to keep his
sadistic smile from emerging
onto his greasy face.
Fuck that Shit.
He may think that all of us:
the servile workers,
Might I mention the Irony
That he too, is a peon
pulled by the blood red strings
crafted by the district H.R.
Hands tighten on the bottom of my
I pull that shirt all the way over
I fling it in his face.
I'm going out with a whoosh of defiance.
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