Written by matthatt

Monday, 4 October 2010

image for This sporting lie.

The job is hunting, this sporting lie, that's the job for me.
Just to get an interview is like winning the lottery

…and Hang around the job centre, you feel a scrounging skank
so if I want to come into money, I should take my matter to the bank.

Under starters orders every morning of the week,
faint heart never won fair wage, but blessed are the meek

On the oche! At the gate. My tigers eye online.
Who is going to finish first? My patience or my prime.

The clock is ticking, the days are hours, the weeks blur into one,
there is no allowance as a job seeker, the work is never done.

Every day that we're out of the loop, the experience slips away.
If it takes too long to be employed, I'll be a paperboy again one day…

…that is of course if the job hasn't gone to a mindless automaton.
Gis a job, I can do that. Sorry, you're over qualified, my son.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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Topics: Poetry
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