Furnishing Farce

How many men does it take to deliver
A table and several chairs?
You’d think I was kidding
The joke would seem hidden
The first one just ‘didn’t do’ stairs

With telephones trilling, the second, unwilling
Could not get the top through the door
The third tried to shame me,
And name me, and blame me
For furnishings to the sixth floor

Solution: to dump them on pavement
Just junk them – delivery over and done
Denying they’d tried it
(My boss wouldn’t buy it)
The whole thing becoming a pun

For what good are services that don’t deliver
The minimum bang for your buck?
While companies try
Not to fall for the lie
That the ground floor is somehow the top

Five to five

They’re dropping like flies
As the plague sweeps the ranks
Rows of workstations empty
While telephone banks

Ring loud through the silence
And gathering gloom
As Thursday-night callers
Take turns round the room

One lone operator
Soon pales at the noise
And grasps at the handset
With grimace in place

For over-mic’d trawlers
That given the choice
She’d give neither date
Time, directions, nor voice

It’s almost the hour
That her shift’s at an end
But one final nuisance
Is waiting to rend

The last of her sanity
Ripped down the wire
Complaining injustices
Crude, uninspire

No longer the patience
To handle such groans
She’s wanting her bed
And an end to all ‘phones

An oath for thee, Hippocrates

Passion curling from the wires
Humours, good and ill
Twisting up in wordless fires
To smoke the mind until

All dessicated, one by one
Each thought is slowly drained
As ears are filled with shovelled dung
And feelings feeling maimed

Then comes the call to end all such
Unpleasant fractious whine
The final straw, when all – too much
Has built up over time

A gentle coo, a saving grace
Is whispered from above
And slowly turn with pained face
To greet the one we love

Ah, blessed biscuit, sacred tea
More skilled at healing’s art
Than Panacea’s family
When all has split apart