I wanted to work in herbaceous control, Where I would keep track Of the landscape’s needs. I sent out letters for any such role, But all I got back Were tumbleweeds.
I wanted to work with invertebrates, Recording each fly In the council’s thickets. I sent my CV to associates, But the only reply Was the chirp of crickets.
I wanted to work on stellar stations, To be employed As a space engineer – I sent out a thousand applications, But into the void They would disappear.
I wanted to work in an int’resting job And proceeded to chase For ev’ry scheme. But the world just told me to shut my gob, And to know my place, And to never dream.
General Post Office, Lombard Street, London by Thomas Rowlandson
UBI
I can’t imagine having a job I like enough to go on strike – If you want it, come and get it, I’ll be on my bike. I guess I’m lucky enough to know I can always find another one – It’s just as rubbish as the last, But then, who works for fun ?
I can’t imagine having a job, In any worthwhile medium – Is there dignity in labour ? Sure, But far more tedium. I know some folks who love their work, But I can’t plug into that socket – Am I enriching the world right now, Or just my boss’s pocket ?
I can’t imagine having a job, Except to keep me warm and fed – Just think of all I could achieve, If I only stayed in bed ! Time’s too short to not be treasure – Count the moments, not the weeks… Let’s live our lives for love and leisure, Like the ancient Greeks !
I found this image as a banner for former Cambridge councillor Sam Davies, but cannot find a credit for it. That poor dog looks very windblown…
Just Another Election Day
Always on Thursdays, these days, Always a busy day in the week – It’s just the fate of the next five years, So best to keep it meek. Never a public holiday, We don’t want to make a fuss – Just pop-in, if you think you can spare the time On your way to the bus.
We see the early-morning party leaders Be the first to the poles – Fulfilling their photogenic roles, Though too late for the newspaper-readers, Whose headlines show the colours of their souls.
So the bookworms are shunned from the lib’ries, And the kids kicked-out of the schools, As the powers that be, begrudgingly, Let us have a say in the rules. It’s all so British and half-cocked, All ashamed of the rallies and cheers – Just cast your vote in silence, Then shut-up for five more years.
And the highlight of the day, Are all the dogs who wait so patiently By the signs in heavy font on the TV, As their owners have their say – While a third of us stay home in apathy.
Hoards of coins in shallow graves, Unlawful death of wealth – An inquest must be called To let the gold announce itself. The coroner shall ascertain The trove’s identity, And whether misadventure Caused its current liberty. Was it witness to a conflict ? Was it lost or laid to rest ? Do we need an autopsy To open up its chest ? It seems at odds with all their other tasks, It must be said – But it surely makes a pleasant change From dealing in the dead.
We cheered them off, that September, So sure in their duty, As we were in ours, you see. We loved them enough, I remember, To want them to keep-in alright With the powers-that-be. We held the fort, as contenders, But only until they returned, As surely they would, we trust. Be a good sport, I remember, Assisting to sister the brotherhood, Because we could, and must.
They’re most of them gone these days, ho-hum, Except the old and lame and mad – Though not their fault who goes and stays, All families are missing a brother or dad. It’s lonely for the strays that we’ve become – And guilty to be so secretly glad. Gas fitters, brick layers, Tram drivers, football players – Our handiwork is at the root Of ev’ry batch of shells the soldiers shoot.
We filled the schools, as pretenders, And the factories too, And the pubs and the shops, we hear. We held their tools, I remember, And lived their jobs, and drove their trams, And tended their crops, all year. We proved our worth, our gender, As we waited for news That the end was upon us, at last. To give back each berth, I remember – Was joy for their coming, And dread that our honours had passed.
But what if so few of them come back to check-in ? What will we do then, without their call ? We’ll manage, of course, we’ll soon get the knack, We’ll, some of us, have an absolute ball – But what if they never retrack, d’you reckon ? What if this freedom’s our absolute all ? Slowly thriving with aplomb, While gaining votes and singledom – We’ve come at last to claim our due Now that there’s far far more of us than you.
Surgeons, pilots, firefighters, Barristers, and presidents – These pseudo-psychopaths, From the boardrooms to the regiments, Who find calmness in the chaos And detachment in the fear, Who are able to exert control And keep their focus clear. They switch off their empathy When steady at the lever, To stop them dithering with love, Or panicking with fever. We need them in the frontlines, With their special kind of brain – But most of all, we need to help them Switch back on again.
I always find psychopaths in movies incredibly boring, but this poem was greatly inspired by the fascinating Vsauce2 video on the subject.
She is a Goth in black and pale, In a daily cosplay, a loudmouth mime – I muse if the process ever gets stale ? But she’s on the dole, so I guess she has time. On the days when I see her looking very boring Is a day when I think she prob’ly has an interview – But otherwise, I see her chequered like the flooring, Posing for commuters as we hurry on through. In time, I guess, she’ll simply grow out of it, And land that job where she has to behave, And sign-up for tennis, as if she never doubted it, And marry into motherhood, and paint the architrave. Until, one day, an unexpected photograph, An over-awed grandchild, and it all comes back – With a flicker of pride and an unassuming laugh, And a tale of the daily pale and black. Am I projecting ? I think I’m projecting. But every day, as her statement goes by, I find myself once more reflecting On how she’s the only one round here to even try. Yet surely the Goths are braver when in company, As freaks together, a performance shared ? But her mates just slouch in their t-shirts, grumpily – And I am no different, I never would have dared…!
In reams and reams of screens, Awash with electronic ink, Modern life, it seems, Can be too quick to make a link – Bombarding us with helpfulness That turns out to be bunk, As we’re wading through a wealth of mess, And oceans-worth of junk.
With teems of smart machines Whose outputs only grow and grow, Modern life, it seems, Is just afraid to tell us “no”. Is classification then simply an illusion, Decisiveness drowning in doubt ? Results are lost in too much inclusion, And not enough filtering-out.
These aren’t people, we needn’t feel sorry, They have no sentience – We’re not some malevolent Tory With deep cuts we must dispence. We needn’t be stone-deaf to pleas, For no pleas can be made. These facts aren’t lonely refugees – So why is our softwear swayed ?
We need our algorithms cruel If they’re to be effective, For what’s the point of a rule If we won’t let it be selective ? So we have to choose, it cannot be both these, In our data refinery – For we need no participation trophies In the world of binary.
Yep, I just treated data as a mass-noun, and not a plural. The same way as every pedant would still treat news as not a plural.
Rhyming Couplets 