Monday, 5 March 2018

Concierge

A poem from 2018

So what did your last servant die of?
Always at your beck and call
Do this, do that
What do you think I am?

So I'm running around like a mad thing
On tenterhooks in case you ring
Can't sleep, words bleep
My time is not my own

So you thank me for my time and service
I smile but only on the surface
This life, what life?
I'd quit if the pay wasn't so good

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