You sit in the corner with contemptuous air,
Silently contemplating my despair.
Plotting and scheming to me undo,
Full duplex, colour and stapling too.
Grey in colour, amorphous jelly mould,
I hate your body it has to be told.
Your muted tones reflect deep calm,
Does anyone realise that you mean me harm?
When you finally wheeze into action,
Your infernal noise drives me to distraction!
Clunking drawers and creaking lid,
Awaken the dead, yes YOU did.
From your depths my paper snatched,
For no reason except a plan you hatched.
Nothing stuck by my omission,
I’m sure as hell not calling the technician.
Here he comes, briefcase in hand,
Tin of furniture polish and spare rubber band.
To sooth your ego? Massage your joints?
I didn’t call him for you to score points.
You’re slow and clumsy to get the job done,
The counter says: copies one million and one.
I don’t care that you leak and your rollers are tired,
If it weren’t for the recession I’d have your arse fired.
Waiting for the photocopier to wheeze into action. I thought I should vent my irritation through verse rather than kicking the machine down the stairs.