Rotting in the Wrong Job

Rotting in the Wrong Job

How did I end up here ?
This was never the job I wanted.
It’s not just that I’m disappointed –
I’m living in daily fear !

I’m out of my depth, you see,
At this role I somehow managed to land,
That’s willing to pay me a few more grand –
At least, till they rumble me.

Could I not step back a role ?
But no, my former job is gone ,
And I must be seen to be moving on,
Or failure will haunt my soul.

How many others would love this chance,
Whom fate has equally un-blessed ?
So many of us are bored and stressed
As the Market does its dance.

I don’t want to be a slob,
Or a leech who does sod-all all day
And doesn’t care, just pockets his pay.
I want to be proud of my job !

I want to make a difference,
To labour hard with dignity !
To feel I’ve earned validity –
Or at least, self-confidence.

I daily desp’rately apply
For ev’ry begging vacancy,
To ask them, “whaddaya make of me ?”
The answers terrify:

“You’re not our sort, by far.
You aren’t already one of our crew,
So why should we take a risk on you ?
Just who do you think you are ?”

“You think your job is wrong ?
Then that just makes you damaged goods
So don’t come around our neighbourhoods –
Get back where you belong !”

The Soviets were equally daft,
Controlling who worked where at what,
And no dispute of the jobs they got –
And how the Free West laughed !

But from my dead-end track,
I may not be so centrally-planned –
But I’m pinned-down by the invisible hand,
Just waiting for the sack.

Till then, my bonds are fast.
And what have I achieved round here ?,
But the bloody waste of another year,
Till my prime is long long past.