The Daily Mail's our Bible
The air hangs heavy as a Suffolk sow,
they’re Monday morning miserable
those office workers, tripped on time,
drag leaden feet through treacle steps
to tortoise to another desk,
peer over rims at tomb-toothed grins
to listen to the weekend’s sins
that hold no truth or interest.
Grey faces merge with grey on grey,
perspiration circles swirl on poorly tended armpits,
de-odourised for no-one;
the feeders break the biscuits out,
take refusal as a mortal sin,
their kids have all left home now.
The Daily Mail’s our Bible freaks
through fascist eyes and ruddy cheeks
on the Gypsies, gays and Polish.
We have pockets deep enough for dreams
but not enough cash.
Memories of being lean
but too much time.
The clock suspended in formaldehyde
preserves in aspic working lives
the Monday, Friday, nine to five
from twenty-one to sixty.
We have gall to think our workmates find us handsome,
cheek to stare at other people’s wives,
dream colours not within the office palette,
cerise on pink
remind us we’re forever grey,
we are all office monkeys.