Standing before my porcelain station, holding myself in adulation,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Gently tapping, there came a tapping on the door.
Time lost for a specific duration, electric shaver in total gyration,
My desire for proper sanitation, made me continue the operation,
It was ablution, ablution; and nothing more.
My mind delved into creation, my eyes went into dilation,
There shown a sight I do abhor, toothbrush lay upon the floor.
Feverish rapping, came the rapping on the door.
My brain had a great fixation, echoing the boss’s quotation,
It was a personal damnation, “get your rear into ambulation,”
Oral castration, with nothing more.
That sudden urge for cessation, from this horrible avocation,
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
Came a screaming through the door.
Considering a great temptation, imagining a brilliant oration,
Could I bestow (to great ovation), insult to the old crustacean,
Tis only frustration, and nothing more.
Razor required no more rotation, I closed down the operation,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I do implore;”
To the apparition behind the door.
The mind ended its conflation, of those effects and causation,
I clothed myself in total deflation, all wound up in consternation,
Only this ambiguation, and nothing more.
As I drove, a wonderful narration, developed in small proration,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
These opportunities I decided to explore.
What I would tell that old cetacean, speak my mind without negation,
YES! this would be my salvation, I would end with a clear summation,
T’would be liberation, and forever more.
Arriving at my destination, full of hate and unbridled temptation,
Soon again I heard a tapping, tapping somewhat louder than before.
T’was coming from beneath the carriage floor.
The sound seemed without location, continued for the duration,
T’was but surely a tire deflation, drove past the service station,
I knew it was inflation I must pay for.
I entered the factory in sedation, past the bulletin board notation,
T’was there sat the stately Alsatian of the profitable days of yore;
That morning, having visited the liquor store.
He was on his third potation, grey matter in permanent stagnation,
His thirty-year marriage in litigation, she had discovered lustful temptation,
He perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Obviously bloated from constipation, taking an “in house” vacation,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore,
He was the original, nothing more.
I hoped for some salvation, my mind in scattered formation,
My nerves under heavy taxation, no time for mental relaxation,
It was trepidation of the swinging door.
At last my mind exited stagnation, and entered electric sensation,
Though its answer meaning ….little relevancy it seemed to bore;
Not much confidence was I able to restore.
Then within a minute a relation, seem to offer an honorable dictation,
Whilst I spoke with great elation, a proposal with substantial salvation,
I had every last answer; to answer fore.
I offered him a free year’s potation, while I remained on probation,
Two words, as if my soul within those two words, I did outpour.
“Gift Card” – “Gift Card” at the liquor store.
It was such a brilliant mutation, of supposed logic without citation,
This distraction of the Boss’ vexation, I had promised him sedation,
Numbing of the mind, forever more.
Startled by my apparent salvation, my reply aptly spoken with oration,
“Doubtless,” said I, what more, “I utter this because ‘tis thee I do adore,”
My soul… my soul… I left it lying on the floor.
With the devil had I flirtation, I lied with nary a minor reservation,
Had my job I saved for the damnation, to pay dearly for my temptation,
Working in rotation, with other sinners ever more?
I had made the supreme ablation, severed conscience from all temptation,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat to the Prince of Darkness’ iron door;
Till the dirges of all Hope that melancholy bore,
T’would be an asset for formation, of my newfound creeping gradation,
Unto the bowels of hell’s creation, my business acumen allowed filtration,
To cheat and scheme with great fixation, forever more.
Now I sit in the chair of that great Alsatian, at my side a spotted Dalmation,
An anti-Seraphim visits, whose footfalls step, step lightly on the tufted floor.
The boss has departed, and left behind his wife Lenore.
I am not the worker but the recreation, of that creeping incremental gestation,
Forming a thing rife with awful predation, reflecting my old boss – the crustacean,
Gifting me his radiant carnation, Lenore, my lovely Lenore.