Snow fell during the night; I walked to work
With headphones on, lost in a world of soul
The cold blue sky both overhead and perk
My shoe upper's departing from its sole
Work is so preferable to the dole
People to chat to, computers as toys
A sense of purpose, paid to play a role
Meetings of verbal diarrhoea noise
During which I tap the chair, sip strange teas
Tasting of licorice, fantasies dark
And rich trip my tongue, wistful dreams that stole
Away down my throat, though I kept my poise
A Christmas meal not of turkey but duck
I think I'll plump for. What a radical!
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