Entirely Bad Poetry Part 1

Just to make sure I'm adhering to every cliche of blog convention. The first installment of a hopefully very occasional series.

They Should Have Whips

We sit in our thickets of desks
And talk of seeing the sun
They have it on the second floor, you know
Real windows, real light
But down at the bottom of the trireme
Only the abstract glare of frost.
We bring in our little name badges
And some are able to flourish
Holiday mugs, silver-encircled lovers
All those funny, funny signs.
Potted plants, though, like sunbathers
Turn brown and drop.

A page is freed from the tray, processed
And a clone appears in its place
Gliding through the serving hatch
For the humming jaws of the computer.
Its appetite is almost infinite
Twenty billion bites to sate it.
Though sometimes it turns blue with indigestion.
Then, liberated, we sit back
And curse and curse and curse.

There should be a bell to frame the day
Maybe a great big hooter
To order us, up, down, spin around.
There should be man prowling the aisles
Whip clacking in time with clattering keys.
No more. Not nice.
We must flog ourselves, obeying only
The old urge blamed on John Knox
So we are trapped, fooled, exploited, suppressed,
Contented.