Unofficial
ONE morning, my heart can remember,
I sat dreaming there,
In the 'governor's' chair
In the office. The month was November,
And the weather a subject for prayer.
My mind strayed through visions unbounded--
Far-off seemed the din
That King William Street's in,
And the quill of the 'junior' sounded
Like the squeak of an elf's violin.
I was roused with a start--some one entered.
Though ground-glass divide
Off the sanctum inside,
The star where my homage was centred
In the office without I descried.
'Oh, kind Fate, to bring me my Kitty!
The boy I can send
At the bank to attend:
One partner's just gone from the City,
And the other is at the West End.
'Change two pounds, boy, for threepenny pieces!
And there isn't a franc
In the place!--I will thank
You to take down these coupons from Creasy's
To the London and Westminster Bank.'
He is gone! This can never be Kitty,
Alone here with me!
Can this ever be she,
Laughing here in the heart of the City,
With the old office cat on her knee?
'I hope, Ben,' she says, 'you are stronger,
And I hope it's not true
Work is injuring you;
And I'd better not stay any longer,
As you seem to have so much to do!'
But she does not go yet. Still she lingers,
Dry deed-boxes press
The crisp folds of her dress,
While the desk feels inquisitive fingers
In a touch that is half a caress.
Now, dreary and quiet the place is;
Here's the space on the floor
I remember of yore,
Which was brushed by her ribbons and laces
As she smiled her 'good-bye' at the door.
The violets she wore in her bosom,
So scented, dew-wet,
Are hard to forget;
The dim office grew fair with each blossom,
And their fragrance seems haunting it yet.
I'm in partnership now with old Bradley;
His brother is dead,
So I stand as the Head
Of affairs; and I'm thinking thus sadly
Of the sweetness of days that have fled.
My Wimbledon house--all that's in it--
My life, with its dower
Of money-bag power--
I would throw to the dogs in a minute,
To recall from those days but one hour.
Lost light of my eyes, little Kitty!
Too late now, too late;
But I'd give my estate
To be once more a clerk in the City--
In the office with you tête-à-tête.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Related quotes
Shitty Kitty City
There's a lobby by my study where my visitors may enter
which, since we got the kittens, has a dirtbox at the centre.
They're still too young to go outside, that's why I ask for pity:
they've turned my quiet oasis into Shitty Kitty City.
Pity, pity, isn't it a pity?
They've turned my quiet oasis into Shitty Kitty City.
Their mother trained them very well to go into the tray.
They do their stuff and cover it - that's fair enough, you say;
but litter gets flicked everywhere, so underfoot is gritty:
you need your wellies on indoors for Shitty Kitty City.
Pity, pity, isn't it a pity?
You need your wellies on indoors for Shitty Kitty City.
Mind the crap... Mind the crap... Stand clear of the turds, please.
I scoop the jobbies off the floor: the cats think I collect 'em,
so each one keeps on squeezing me a present from its rectum.
There's steaming heaps all over, and it isn't smelling pretty -
it's best to wear a gasmask when in Shitty Kitty City.
Pity, pity, isn't it a pity?
It's best to wear a gasmask when in Shitty Kitty City.
Ip dip dog shit, you are not it.
But soon they will be big enough to do it in the garden.
I'm putting out my begging bowl, for which I beg your pardon.
And now you see, good people all, the reason for my ditty -
a whipround for a catflap door for Shitty Kitty City.
Pity, pity, isn't it a pity?
I need to buy a catflap door for Shitty Kitty City.
poem by Wild Bill Balding
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A Doe In The City
Little KITTY LORIMER,
Fair, and young, and witty,
What has brought your ladyship
Rambling to the City?
All the Stags in Capel Court
Saw her lightly trip it;
All the lads of Stock Exchange
Twigg'd her muff and tippet.
With a sweet perplexity,
And a mystery pretty,
Threading through Threadneedle Street,
Trots the little KITTY.
What was my astonishment—
What was my compunction,
When she reached the Offices
Of the Didland Junction!
Up the Didland stairs she went,
To the Didland door, Sir;
Porters lost in wonderment,
Let her pass before, Sir.
'Madam,' says the old chief Clerk,
'Sure we can't admit ye.'
'Where's the Didland Junction deed?'
Dauntlessly says KITTY.
'If you doubt my honesty,
Look at my receipt, Sir.'
Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
Smiling as he meets her.
KITTY at the table sits
(Whither the old Clerk leads her),
'I deliver this,' she says,
'As my act and deed, Sir.'
When I heard these funny words
Come from lips so pretty;
This, I thought, should surely be
Subject for a ditty.
What! are ladies stagging it?
Sure, the more's the pity;
But I've lost my heart to her,—
Naughty little KITTY.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Care For The Elderly - A Conference
They gather in the Greeting Place
A smaller flock than once expected
Still elated - out from work and office
All around - the empty space
Is pressing on the keen - collected
Taking pointers - out from work and office
Inside the hall there is small trace
Of anyone to ‘stand corrected'
They're all working - inside work and office
Still curtains drift - in finest lace
The certain eyes not disaffected
Hide behind the lace of work and office
And speakers high in group embrace
Speak on and clap in unelected
Fluffy tones of every Higher Office
The higher speakers high disgrace
Is hid below their undetected
Lack of use - their waste of work and office
In keening grief - tears hid from face
A speaker - practical - affected
Brings human life within their work and office
And human thoughtfulness will base
Its Older Care on need selected
From that shown - away from work and office
Its time to fix he High and chase
By methods certain - unsuspected
Out form power - out from work and office
Foregather - follow to their base
See them - incestuous - connected
By wires unseen - inside work and office
27Mar2011 CPR
poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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Complicated Lifestyle.
a man's life is simple.
he has a routine, like this: house, office, house.
he gets bored, adds another place,
like house, office, park, mall, house,
waste of money, but a little interesting, he adds more
a friend's house, another house where he can be intimate with someone,
then sex, and games and romance and betrayal and use and sue and
lots of booze,
he retreats back to house, office, house,
but it is not the same again.
he sins, feels so broke, and
to a certain extent
attempts at suicide.
sad, but it can happen to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The First Lord's Song
When I was a lad I served a term
As office boy to an Attorney's firm;
I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door.
I polished up that handle so successfullee,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
As office boy I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk;
I served the writs with a smile so bland,
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.
I copied all the letters in a hand so free,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
In serving writs I made such a name
That an articled clerk I soon became;
I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit
For the Pass Examination at the Institute:
And that Pass Examination did so well for me,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip
That they took me into the partnership,
And that junior partnership I ween,
Was the only ship that I ever had seen:
But that kind of ship so suited me,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament;
I always voted at my Party's call,
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.
I thought so little, they rewarded me,
By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,
If you want to rise to the top of the tree -
If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule -
Stick close to your desks and NEVER GO TO SEA,
And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Abike Memory
A Memory.
I once was an errand boy and had a big bike that had no gears and
our town was hilly. In front of the bike there was a steel mesh box
to put stuff in…sometimes when a doctor needed three chairs for
his waiting room it was all loaded up and I could hardly see where
I was going. But most of the time delivered things like typewriters
or ash trays; or delivering letters to clients, the last part made me
feel rather important as I was debt collector and taking the money
to the bank. Banks back then had a churchly interior and I had to
take my cap off before entering; a somber place never saw anyone
smile. When not on call I worked in the office putting papers in
folders in alphabetical orders, fetch cakes and coffee for the staff.
I was offered a position as a junior clerk, but the thought of working
in an office for the rest of my life was too much, mother said I had
lost an golden opportunity, but she was thinking of what she could
tell her sister: " my son works in an office". As my aunt's son was
a welder and wore overall. It is a long time ago back in the days
I was free to make a choice. Right or wrong I shall not know perhaps
I could have ended up as a company director that would have made
mother very proud.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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You come to work because the office is a resource: The office is a place where you can meet with other people, and the office has libraries of books and information on CD-ROM that might help you with your work.
My other Life
Some say I am a different man
when I leave this job for home
Different than when I’m here
in this place of glass and stone
I run the show at the office
but I am a Daddy every night
I am a Redneck on the weekends
but my baby thinks I’m all right
Those who claim to know me
all say I’m a little weird
but she sees the way I really am
when the rest of them aren’t here
Pickn at my keyboard
in place of my guitar
Stuck here in this office
instead of singing at the bar
I am a different man
when I leave this place behind
I walk away from the week
and lead my other life
I am a lot of different things
to a lot of different folks
some that really know me
and those that really don’t
I like to gather with my budds
and drink a few cold beers
Sing old songs till the crowds all gone
or until my mind is clear
I like rockn country music
and good home cooking too
I trust my old pickup truck
and respect the red white and blue
Clickn on my mouse
In place my guitar
Stuck here in this office
instead of singing at the bar
I am a different man
when I leave this place behind
I saddle up my pickup truck
and lead my other life
I’ve never quit my job
or walked out on my wife
I live just like my old man showed me
everyday of his hard life
I am a business man by day
a lover late at night
Sundays I bow my head to pray
but I am not afraid to fight
You may not recognize me
without my suit on anymore
I might be in my boots and hat
but I am just that guy next door
Pickn at my keyboard
in place of my guitar
Stuck here in this office
instead of singing at the bar
I am a different man
when I leave this place behind
I trade my tie for a cowboy hat-
and lead my other life
Sometimes I‘m sure it looks
like there’s two of me around
but when one of me is here
the other can’t be found
yea my other life
poem by Rusty Gibson
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A Manager
For me money is cotton
For you it`s freedom
Nowadays it`s fashion-
An American Dream!
So you strive to get the beam
To work like a robot
For the sake of the cotton dream.
You`re a mean value maneger
You never work under, you take higher
This century is yours, hold your computer
A human is nothing, but his career.
You`re the luckiest
You work in the office
You`re the luckiest
You work in the office
Oh, yeah baby
Your fate isn`t silly nor wicked
Your bucks is saved by your cent
Step by step, untill you get blind
It`s OK you are almost dead
As far as the Boss is fully glad
Im the first who admit
We all need the money
So, shall we get mad?
It`s a real calamity...
Step by step, until you get blind
Step by step, until you get blind
Step by step, until you get blind
Step by step, until you get blind
The main thing is to know for sure
Where`s your place and who you are
No doubt, near a fool you`re smarter
Happiness for me means freedom
For you - Disney Land
You`re the luckiest
You work in the office
You`re the luckiest
You work in the office
Oh, yeah baby
You work in the office
Oh, my God!
Translated from Russian. The Leningrad band 'Menedjer'
poem by Emma Adamyan
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Baby you are my soul mate
Baby you are my soul mate
But now it seems it's too late
O those old days were so great
Then secretly we could date
But now we can't change our fate
Coz now it seems it's too late
Sometimes we had tete-a-tete
I stared at you when you ate
You were like my heaven's gate
But now it seems it's too late
Your love has turned into hate
Coz you are now so upset
Your thought now makes my eyes wet
Coz now it seems it's too late
Everything is not said yet
Read my poems in internet
You will forgive I can bet
Though now it seems it's too late
Forget me not don't forget
Otherwise you will regret
Don't treat me like a lost pet
Though now it seems it's too late
poem by Asif Andalib
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Donkey Life
today
i was sad
so.. sad...
i my office
officer
bite me
at hard words
words are very fool
so
i am not cool
i am very hot
so thinking
my officer words at home
i did not sleep well
i did not eat well
next day
i am going for office
not a healthy person
with patent
on body...
on mind...
office life is
donkey life...
what can i do...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Donkey Life 4 Office
today
i was sad
so.. sad...
i my office
officer
bite me
at hard words
words are very fool
so
i am not cool
i am very hot
so thinking
my officer words at home
i did not sleep well
i did not eat well
next day
i am going for office
not a healthy person
with patent
on body...
on mind...
office life is
donkey life...
what can i do...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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At The Window
Every morning, as I walk down
From my dreary lodgings, toward the town,
I see at a window, near the street,
The face of a woman, fair and sweet,
With soft brown eyes and chestnut hair,
And red lips, warm with the kisses left there.
And she stands there as long as she can see
The man who walks just ahead of me.
At night, when I come from my office down town,
There stands a woman with eyes of brown,
Smiling out through the window blind
At the man who is walking just behind.
This fellow and I resemble each other -
At least so I'm told by one and another,
(Though I think I'm the handsomer by far, of the two,)
I don't know him at all, save to 'how d'ye do, '
Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work
In a dry-goods store as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer of high renown,
Having a snug bank account and an office down town, -
Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite,
(it had no other name, so I speak it outright.)
There were symptoms before; but it's grown I believe,
Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,
When passing the little house close by the street,
I heard the patter of two little feet,
And a figure in pink fluttered down to the gate,
And a sweet voice exclaimed, 'Oh, Will, you are late!
And, darling, I've watched at the window until -
Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will! '
I passed on my way, with such a strange feeling
Down in my heart. My brain seemed to be reeling;
For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will,
And that voice crying 'darling, ' sent such an odd thrill
Throughout my whole being! 'How nice it would be, '
Thought I, 'If it were in reality me
That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout! '
(It was envy that made me use that word, no doubt,)
For he's a fine fellow, and handsome! -(ahem!)
But then it's absurd that this rare little gem
Of a woman should stand there and look out for him
Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,
While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary and bare,
With no one to welcome me, no one to care
If I'm early of late. No soft eyes of brown
To watch when I go to, or come from the town.
This bleak, wretched, bachelor life is about
(If I may be allowed the expression) played out.
Somewhere there must be, in the wide world, I think,
Another fair woman who dresses in pink,
And I know of a cottage, for sale, just below,
And it has a French window in front and - heigho!
I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be
Before, coming home from the office, I'll see
A nice little woman there, watching for me.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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October the Post Office Cat
Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.
She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.
As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.
She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.
She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.
On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.
There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know
That she wouldn't be there anymore.
October the Post Office Cat.
Then mysteriously the sign reappeared
On the post for all to read
Which proclaimed that this was the crossing
Reserved for the cat that all were missing.
And it's said that she comes each day
Although never seen by adults on their way
But the children know that she is there.
October the Post Office Cat.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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Playing with words
Sometimes one gets used to words
And they are uttered without really anything to mean
Like one kind of a routine
Like you’re one kind of a boring bookworm
Office house
House office
Church on Sundays
Seldom (having sex in some
First time places)
Sometimes one goes to the toilet without
Switching on the lights or having to open one’s eyes
There is a memory
Of what comes first and comes later
Of what one need not think anymore
Something so ordinary so invisible
We forget what meaning is
We die without really knowing why
There were words then
We remember
There is no more chill
Like a red apple that you love to bite
Fresh from the ref
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Eye On London
The morning sky has a crest of a moon
Sitting up over my window's horizon,
Tall conifers compete with chimney stacks,
Castle top turrets and white office blocks;
The trickling traffic from King’s Cross below
Meets life coming into the city.
It’s quiet out there at four in the morning,
(The calm before the storm) ,
While the lights of the street lamps
Grow dimmer towards dawn
From my fourth floor eye on old London.
poem by Matt Mooney
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Welcome To Sleazy Town
One hand on the controller
One hand on the re-wind
You can even watch it all in slow mo
cos you just sit at home all day
Now you got plenty of time
If you want some real live action
And the videos too tame
If you wanna touch some heat
But you dont know how to light that flame
If you want some satisfaction
Instead of studying the freeze frame
I used to have this spot on main street
It was bounding, it was hot
It was dark, it was dirty
But dull it was not
The joint was jumping every night
But now its just a parking lot
This city was cruel
This city was keen
This city was alive
This city was mean
Till the office blocks and parking lots
Came and closed this city down
I could stand outside
The kids hung round
And the neon sign said
Welcome to sleazy town
Welcome to sleazy town
Sleazy, sleazy town
Everybody hung loose
It was cool and easy
People used to meet and have a good time
Down in sleazy town, sleazy town, sleazy town, sleazy town
Then the corporations came along
And bought this piece of ground
The leases all went up
And so the buildings all came down
They built the motorways and shopping malls
And they killed off sleazy town
This city was cool
This city was keen
This city was alive
This city was till the office blocks and parking lots
Came and closed this city down
I could stand outside, the kids hung round
And the neon sign said
Welcome to sleazy town
Welcome to sleazy town, sleazy, sleazy town
City hall killed off that scene
Now sleazy town is just a dream
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the City
I watched ladies in pencil skirts,
pass as I listened to the brass band
all sleepy in the sunshine.
In those the days I worked in the City,
caught the tube every morning,
mostly arriving late, didn't care.
My mind was as free as a bird,
my mood optimistic like a butterfly
waiting for its wings to dry.
Nowadays I'm uptight, strung out,
stressed and can't relax,
but then, I could laze all day……
I remember the tall buildings,
high rise office blocks, fancy restaurants,
smart suited men and laborers.
Noisy pneumatic drills, road works,
Italian chefs swearing, flirting,
busy days, busy nights.
Blokes and girls taking liquid lunches,
working hard and being crazy,
I recall heartbeats of London life.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Return
Who knocks at the door so late, so late—
Who knocks so late at the door?
Is it one who comes as a stranger comes,
Or one who has knocked before?
Is it one who stays with intent to bless,
Or one who stands to implore?
My days have been as the years, she said,
And my heart, my heart is sore;
Love looked in my face for a moment's space
One happy spring of yore—
Looked in my face with a wistful grace:
And left me to grieve evermore!
Through all the days the door stood wide,
For hope had breathed a vow
That love should ne'er be kept outside.
The years were long and hope hath died;
The door at last is barred and fast—
Why comes this knocking now?
Yet woe the waiting heart, she said,
And the heart it waiteth for!
And woe the truth and wasted youth
That nothing shall restore!
The faith that's fled, the hope that's dead,
The dreams that come no more.
Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late?
Thou foolish heart, be still!
What is 't to thee if love or hate
Knocks in the midnight chill?
Art thou, poor heart, compassionate?
Is love so hard to kill?
Ah me! the night is cold, she said;
Would I might all forget;
But memory lives when hope is dead,
And pity heals regret;
As light still lingers overhead
When sun and moon are set.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good morning Boss
Day spoils if start is not at all good
We can do away with no good food
But certainly not with bad start
You may wear gloomy face and feel bad heart
It is said “whose beginning then his day too will be bad”
He may find it difficult with brother. Mummy or even with dad
There may take place unusual things to disturb whole day
You may loose patience and find no other good way
In office day starts with “'good morning” to boss
you got to always yes and never no even at some personal loss,
He is the one person in office who is always in tension,
You can’t expect any thing bad worth to mention,
I always take steps for its prevention,
I never ask or raise any question,
Simply fall in line with him ready to go with his words
try to show the sincerity and keenness in special work
I or for that matter no one can afford to loose his grace
Loosing favor means you won’t have any trace
All odds against you and problems to face,
Why simply to enter then unnecessary race?
Try to be near him but not so close,
Butter daily with kind words and offer rose,
Stand by with him in the time of need
Never show bad gesture and prove your worth in deed
it is hard time to show sincerity and prove best class
Hide the discomfiture and feelings under dark glass,
don’t try to create any flutter and allow the day to pass,
Allow his name to be seen plate with shining in brass
If you ever happen to fall out of grace
Ready yourself to challenge and face,
Offer very good smile and use kind words,
Remain obedient and sincere as you remain with lords
After all he is bread provider and boss
We can’t afford to alienate him at any cost
Our relation may at any time go frost
But it is not the end of the day or love lost
Try to reason out your obedience
Prove that office is at par excellence
It is only because of his brilliance
Office has got reputation only by his presence
It is no exaggeration to use few good words in his honor
You may find that he too may stand for your favor
In fact it is the presence of all that count s for performance
There is no use if we undermine his authority in others presence
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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