Colleague of mine, who passes oft
That place where I, both meek and soft
of voice, do labor through the day,
please bend an ear to what I say.
I gather you are unaware
Of all you do -- and to be fair
This is a universal trait
Found from the Yukon to Kuwait:
Through others' lives we're apt to stumble,
And, knowing this, I shall be humble
And not presume you are a boob --
Why must you rub against my cube?
Each time you saunter to a meeting
Or, hasty ('cause your pager's bleating),
Back to your distant desk you rush
You give my cubicle a brush.
It's not an intermittent tap
A once-fortnightly, friendly slap
But a habitual caressing
Perhaps you think it's Debra Messing?
You've never stopped for any talking
But let your fingers do the walking
Along my cube, unconsciously.
I think you must have O.C.D.
At times I've seen you, harried, bolt
But even so you give a jolt:
For, jogging by, you stretch your mitt
To make quite sure you're touching it
As I can't seem to catch your eye
My thinking cap I must apply
To put a stop to your glad-handing
While my poor cubicle's still standing
Electric shocks are a deterrent
But I'm no good with wiring current.
I could affix some broken glass
To make surprising your next pass,
But that might cut an innocent
And I'd be asked to fold my tent.
So, as I'd like to keep my job
Yet disencourage touchy slobs
Like you, perhaps I'll coat my cube
With gallons of protective lube.
I think that I shall never touch
A wall as lovely as your hutch
Your cube's fate could be much crueler
See what he does at the water cooler!
I shouldn't fail to credit Rory for the inspiration to doggerelize.
Posted by: BT on April 20, 2004 12:47 PMWhose cube is this? I think I know.
It belongs not to BT, though.
The man who owns it sits upstairs,
Of its occupant he neither knows nor cares
He will not mind me stopping here
to give his cubicle a stroke
To cop a loving feel and thus
to agonize the residing bloke
The day is long and hard, and I am stressed
But BT's cubicle is as a woman's breast.
What light from yonder cubicle breaks?
Is he in there, who my world shakes?
Who sends my spinal cord ajangle
From his upholstered, spare rectangle?
Who left his teabag by the sink,
Who carved up the skating rink
'neath Atlas's shoulders and the world
and yet above my vision swirled?
Is he in there? Does he but hide?
My ears can't tell, God knows I've tried
to hear his breath by leaning close
my thoughts at once afire, morose.
Perhaps within his scholar's cloister
His thoughts are dry; without, mine moister
Perhaps he toils with wigged out hair
to adjust his pneumatic chair.
I cannot knock, my knuckles white
My gut a knot, though can of Sprite
I did imbibe. I must take leave
and flee this place to sweat and heave.
Our fortunes must both crest and crater --
But soft! I hear the elevator!
O, torment dear, why twist me so?
I kiss the wall and off I go.
Of late I've not been at my desk or cubical
(In case you suspect my attention is fickle);
Last week I was out in the rain and the foggerel,
Blind to my role in inspiring this doggerel.
But if I had known, as I trudged through the peat,
Of this poem of yours, I'd have thought, 'Hey, that's neat!'
No worries, mate.
Posted by: S'alright on December 28, 2004 09:03 PM