Drives To Tears
Oh happy day, Madame De Pompadour stays
in bed yet again, it's been ages since she saw
the sun, her majesty's presence is required for
celebrations indefinitely deferred until Madame
appears again, the brightest jewel on the velvet
background of our little office universe
Since taking cortisone some time after Monday
she has been nauseous, groggy and nauseous
again today, hearts bleeding in sympathy - so
much pain and suffering in one lifetime, it is
unthinkable, all tremble as they hear the
news, trying to determine
What medical abuse could be the cause of such
long, wasting illness, it sounds like radiation sick-
ness, a malady of heart and soul, though she looks
glamorous and young when she brings a surprise
visit to the office, it is just a ruse, underneath she
is most terribly ill, need's a specialist's skill
To get her up again and then it doesn't last long,
it is quite clear good health is just a mask she
wears - underneath she must be hiding a life
that is just wasting away, driving us to tears
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Exemplary And Lavish Extravagance
Aaah, Madame La Pompadour needs time off
from the office they had built her, soundproof,
air-con, and everything she wants inside, today
she plays chauffer to the children in her neigh-
bourhood and visiting her mother in the old-age
home - she condescendingly told us - though
there is really no need why we should know
where she is, she is the free incumbent
Madame La Pompadour suffers agoraphobia
at home and claustrophobia in the office, her
problems are debilitating; she needs a bigger
office of course, with user-friendly interior
decorating - I sigh in admiration, such a very
exemplary and lavish extravagance, with the
cool presumption that a James Bond would
envy her, she does what she wants
Madame La Pompadour looks down on the
mundane civil servants - us - who man the
open-plan office, why should she earn her
salary like a slave when she gets it without
ever leaving her home?
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Prima Donna
Madame La Pompadour cannot come to work,
the world is spinning out of control, her dog
needs medical attention, her car cannot start in
the morning, her dog needs another vet, now
Madame Pompadour's newly built office is
empty - it was given as a compelling condition
for her return to work, yet it seems something
is lacking still, can we guess what it is
Maybe a chauffeur to drive her to work every
morning, a special kennel next to her office so
she can bring her dogs to be with her all day,
maybe a built-in a humidifier so she can breathe
freely without germs, maybe a Jacuzzi so she can
get rid of the tension right here at work, maybe
her own cook and kitchenette so she can order
the right meals with the same aplomb as
A Lady Gaga, surely Madame La Pompadour has
already dethroned both Madonna and Lady Gaga
for being a prima donna who gets her own way!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Amazing Audacity (Revised)
Our recalcitrant colleague,
esteemed Mme Pompadour,
solved problem of being at
the office, Monday she said
booked off till today - called,
feels nauseous, can't come
in - why when she's already
arranged to stay away?
Difficult to make up sick leave
on the go, keep track what was
said when, ad hoc improvisation
on the spot - maybe she should
develop ethical standards, more
consistency in stories; we feel so
sorry when her tales go awry
Though I am glad to say that
management seems happy
with whatever she does, making
us proud by getting away with
anything, what lovely duplicity,
all has to admire and applaud
such amazing audacity!
[ORIGINAL: ]
Our recalcitrant colleague, most esteemed
Mme Pompadour - solved the problem of
irrelevant work at the office, Monday she
said booked off till Wednesday, today all
forgotten, called to say she took cortisone,
feels nauseous, she can't come in today,
why when already arranged to stay away?
It must be difficult to make up sick leave on
the go, keep track of what you said when -
ad hoc improvisation on the spot - maybe
she should write it down, develop ethical
standards-consistency in her own stories,
we feel so sorry for her when we can see
her intricate tales are going awry - though
Apparently management is happy with what-
ever she does, making us proud by getting
away with anything - what lovely duplicity,
all has to applaud such amazing audacity
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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See Not At All
The high and mighty lady who seldom
honours state office with her graceful
presence told Madame De Lafayette,
supervisor - off for follow-up tests
Still not coming to the office while the
rest of us are threatened with legal
procedures should we violate any
regulation pertaining to absence
Stunned by these double standards
some openly mimicking Madame La
Pompadour's haughty manner - the
Calvinistic work ethic of colleagues
Enabling them to do her work also, no-
body lodges a complaint; such good
officials, used to oppression for no
apparent reason other than
Management's inefficiency which only
intimidate the law-abiding while serial
offenders are untouchable - best is
to see La Madame not at all…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Sudden Enlightenment
Maybe telepathic messages between people
do exist, I felt bad, then received SMS from
sis - in bed, ill with something, leading to sud-
den enlightenment when Madame Pompadour
sent her SMS: also in bed, sinus attack
really bad, pain and incontinence
I should never have speculated about lack of
telepathic communication, sis is connected to
a bed-ridden Madame Pompadour, my feeling
ill caused by vibrations from those two - let me
apologise to the genies in the sky for ex-
pressing distrust of telepathy
Today I know everything we think and feel is
diffused through osmosis and picked up by a
sensitive medium like me; let me lock mental
doors, only keep an aperture open for my
lovely colleagues: Pollyanna, Heidi, Maria
Von Trapp and Wendy who said
All is well in Neverland, God is in heaven and
Madame Pompadour in her bed – AMEN –
Heidi replied - eyes twinkling with
merriment…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Mystified
We are spell-bound, gripped in the clutches
of a mystery of mind-blowing proportions:
Where is Madame La Pompadour, why is
she still gone, why did she SMS on gastro-
intestinal upset and lamenting her
awakening at twenty past eleven
Will she ever return to the office again, will
Human Resources one day carry out its
warning that she is not an asset to the govern-
ment, receiving a salary for no work done; one
long, continuous absence while others do
her job, when will she look at us
Disdainfully again, with the assured arrogance
of one used to command and only rising from
her bed if she feels like it - not very often; what
excuse will she offer next if her health does
not keep deteriorating: buying a night-gown
for mom, geyser burst during the night
A tree to be chopped down, car won't start, dog
to be taken to the vet; she feels depressed
and must see a psychiatrist, she overslept -
like today, her list of excuses being very re-
petitive - How long will Human Resources
and Management keep us
Happily engrossed in guessing the steps to be
taken to deal with the situation, will they give
her merit for the most persistent absentee
encountered in government service, creating
a marvelous plot more complicated than
an Agatha Christie suspense novel
Reminding of ‘They Came to Bagdad' - a
young girl lied all the time, when she finally
spoke the truth no-one believed her - we
are all riveted by the unfolding of this mystery
fascinated and mystified by the daring
exploits of our own Madame
Showing cowards how to go once started
on the road to flaunt the establishment,
we can only shout encouragement:
Way to go Madame, Good Luck!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Queen à la Marie Antoinette
Come, let us toast, today and evermore,
Madame La Pompadour - Queen à la
Marie Antoinette - of Civil Servants
When continuous absence without leave
was revealed Management refused to be
blamed and called her breach of Labour
Regulations a regrettable psychiatric event
managers prove they were innocent by
rewarding her innovative behaviour
Building her a new office so she can come
and go as she wants, accountable to no-one,
no manager thus in dereliction of duty
Let us toast the eternal reign of the Miracle-
Working Madame La Pompadour, Scourge
of all Government Departments
Teaching common, inferior civil servants the
meaning of her New Imperial Reign over
Labour Relations!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Tired Of Not Being Me
Tired of being compared to everyone else
Tired of never being good enough
So sick of being hated for something I am and loved for what I’m not
I’m sick of coming last
So now I’m putting myself 1st
I’m not going to waste a single second of my life trying to please anyone else
Why bother wasting my time on them when
I have to face my own fears and fight my own battles
I can’t do everything for everyone
I can’t make everyone happy even though I try or used to try
Because now my life is about me
Yes it may sound self centered
But when you think about it I have lived my life trying to please everyone else
I’m sick of playing games
Sick of pretending to be something I’m not
I’m sick of hiding behind this mask
So I give up now
Its time to take a stand
Time to be my own person
Take my own hand
No longer trying to please anyone but me
poem by Rebekka Bear
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Tales Of Horror and Suspense
Madame Pompadour honoured us by graciously
informing the Department a terrible bug bit her in
the neck during the night, must have been Dracula
we immediately surmised, she a Damsel in distress
trying her best not to waste her time with the rest
of us plebs in the open-plan office, her door must
have been open and the evil monster attacked
perfectly on cue; mesmerised by the marvellous
adventures of our haughty Madame keeping her
head high while one event is followed by the next
incident; her list of original excuses is growing and
soon we shall publish a book delineating the lovely
progress of her exciting life, enlivening bureaucracy
with tales of Horror and Suspense!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Wasting Time
in between dim hours
in between dull days
i'm out counting flowers
i'm still chasing faith
mistake me for a pilot
mistake me for a face you know
consider this old conscience
let no trouble come my way
wasting time, you'd understand
wasting time
wasting time, we'll make our plans
wasting time
it's you alone i wish to free
on you alone i'll focus
it's not the change i wish to believe
this coming of the locusts
skipping like a skimming stone
skimming the bad chapters
swimming thru your tides alone
swimming on your laughter, we're after
wasting time, you'd understand
wasting time
wasting time, let's take the chance
wasting time
you and i, we understand
time is not for making
but just because we don't have a clue
doesn't mean we're faking, we're wasting
wasting time, you'd understand
wasting time
wasting time, we'll make our plans
wasting time
song performed by by Zwan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work Chronicles Tues 22.11.2011
Mary Poppins is dying of boredom,
don’t know what Pollyanna is doing,
Maria von Trapp is bustling as always,
Heidi is diligently doing administration
Madame La Pompadour discreetly stays
in her bed and only moves to her couch
when vertigo and double vision abate
What is the use of finding the element
of fun in every job to be done when the
cake Mary Poppins enjoyed in the park
before riding the Merry-Go-Round in a
race, is shrinking her mind - here is a
mystery that would have thrilled Anastasia
Krupnik no end: Why did Mary Poppins
Consume two slices of cake and why did
she have only one sinus pill - since every
good thriller needs a murder or corpse,
let us add, though we’re sitting on the
sixth floor which used to be a hospital,
we have not seen or felt a disembodied
presence or strange energy
This Kingsley building does not offer any
respite from breathing desultory air while
wondering how to kill time to get to the
end of this day…
Mary Poppins – Me
Pollyanna – Hanlie
Maria Von Trapp – Hermien
Heidi (Johanna Spyri) – June
Madame La Pompadour – our very sick boss
Anastasia Krupnik – character in a book
series written by Lois Lowry
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Oblivious
Day after long dreadful day,
I come home and quietly
put on my mask
so they don't worry.
I have a fake smile
plastered on my face,
and yet they don't even
notice a difference from a real and a fake.
I tell them my day was
fairly good.... each day!
Maybe tell them I
was a little bored.
I cover up my body,
act like everything is fine.
They don't suspect a
single thing is wrong with me.
They can't see anything.
They can't see that underneath
my smile, I am screaming
for them to notice!
They can't see that underneath
my mask, I am crying.
They can't see the agony and
sorrow in my eyes.
They can't see that underneath
everything, I am bruised, cut,
and shattered to pieces.
Blood is everywhere!
They can't see that I
hide my true self from them.
They think my mask is truly me,
they don't know anything.
Late at night and on my own,
I don't have to hide.
I don't have to wear my mask
or fake smile or clothes.
I scream and cry out to the night,
blood oozing out of me,
the pieces of my heart
scatter on the floor.
No one hears my cries,
No one sees my tears.
No one can see how hurt
I have been.
And now here I go,
back down this road again.
Spiraling down further
into the darkness.
Depression is taking hold,
this time it's stronger
and even more resilient.
I don't think I will escape this time.
This darkness creeps all
around me, consuming all that is good.
Replacing the good things
with five more bad things.
It takes hold of me,
reaches inside of me
and takes out my heart.
Takes my soul out.
Then on to another
victim, leaves me,
a corpse with nothing left inside;
just a shell.
The night closes in fast.
And I prepare for the worst.
This time no one will
be there to save me.
They don't even know
that I'm already gone.
They only see what
they want to see, and it's not me...
poem by Jaana Coon
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Passing On Pain To The Next One In Line 5.17.2008
Pain is a strange companion, according to Charlotte
Bronte pain is a scorpion to be squeezed in the hand
until it goes numb so as to deaden the pain that does
not go away by itself
Doesn’t matter how I order my life, I have to traverse
cycles of pain, for energy we have to eat, when I eat
I am ill, when I don’t the pain goes away, as well as
the power to survive
Balancing between waxing and waning cycles of pain,
we chose our lives before we were born, my soul chose
suffering to understand life, the pain of people who seem
so arrogant
But underneath hearts are burning with feelings aflame,
emotions sprouting from scarring thoughts destroying
perspective and life, bewildered eyes chilling my soul,
hardened mouths
Turned into stone, ostensibly people are active and happy,
but underneath they are shrinking away, assigning blame in
loathing of self and rejection of life, seeking compensation in
passing on pain
To the next one in line…
poem by Margaret Alice
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Awareness (Revised)
Awareness of beauty grows lavishly while seated
among Jacaranda trees, green canopies caress
the sun with more divinity than mere words
embrace – it makes my heart swell in music ‘til
lighter than air I float off on the breeze
Luckily we are government officials anchored to
chairs facing a grindstone patiently; at least my
brave Calvinist colleagues are the most upstanding
people I have ever met and cannot be deterred by
anything as fractious as sheer beauty;
Hanlie spreading good humour & delight wherever
she is; Hermien’s unselfconscious efficiency graced
with the calm of a state secretary; June brisk, tone
always crisp, laughter infectious, smile as precious
as jewels hidden deep in the earth,
And the boss Madame La Pompadour is an exact
replica of ‘Madame Olympia’, staying home under
various pretexts so as to not sully her soul by noise
of the open-plan office, and me growing more like
Madame Medusa in ‘The Rescuers’
Driving is my favourite activity, trying to beat each
other robot, succeeding mostly; slow lane overtaking
when the fast crawls at a snail’s pace, enjoying the
exhilaration of evading other motorists, my liberties
sometimes earn aggressive gestures
I merely respond with a smile, blissfully threatening
pedestrians with amazing goodwill while continuing
this enticing technological dance, my mind delighting
in nirvana of a Zen-like trance…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Thus Sinus Said (Revised)
Poor Madame la Pompadour must have been feeling
so down when she tried to get up two days in a row,
despite the Bogeyman behind her door, but Sinusman
claimed her in the end, a terrible attack, so she has to
stay in bed, cannot join us in the office
Like Tchaikovsky holding his head while conducting –
scared of decapitation if he let go, she too cannot move
for fear her head will fall; so she imprisoned at home by
Agoraphobia while Xenophobia makes any movement
outside her yard impossible,
She needs a cohort of doctors and medley of psychiatrists
to deal with her extreme symptoms, can no longer drive
endless miles from East Rand to the humble Kingsley
Centre where she is employed; but she concluded that
her presence is a great privilege to be treasured by those
She lords over, so she will only venture forth when she
feels as glamorous as Angelina Jolie and as impressively
aggressive as George Eliot or Virginia Woolf
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Underneath The Bottle
Ooohhh-wheee, look at me
Looking for some sympathy
Its the same old story -
- of a man and his search for glory
And he found it, there underneath the bottle
Things are never good, things go from bad to weird
Hey gimme another scotch with my beer
Im sad to say -
- I feel the same today as I always do
Gimme a drink to relax me
Ooohhh-wheee, liquor set free
I cant do no work, the shakes inside me
Ahhh, shucks
I got the lousiest luck, Im sick of this
Underneath the bottle
Seven days make a week, on two of them I sleep
I cant remember what the heck I was doing
I got bruise on my leg -
- from I cant remember when
I fell down some stairs, I was lyin underneath the bottle
Ooohhh0wheee, son of a b.
You get so down, you cant get any lower
So long world, you play too rough
And its getting me all mixed up
I lost my pride and its hiddin there underneath the bottle
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To have the opportunity to lead the Solicitor General's office is the honor of a lifetime. As you know, this is an office with a long and rich tradition, not only of extraordinary legal skill but also of extraordinary professionalism and integrity. That is due, in large measure, to the people who have led it.
quote by Elena Kagan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Pierre's Song
In a humble room in London sat a pretty little boy,
By the bedside of his sick mother her only joy,
Who was called Little Pierre, and who's father was dead;
There he sat poor boy, hungry and crying for bread.
There he sat humming a little song, which was his own,
But to the world it was entirely unknown,
And as he sang the song he felt heartsick,
But he resolved to get Madame Malibran to sing his song in public
Then he paused for a moment and clasped his hands,
And running to the looking-glass before it he stands,
Then he smoothed his yellow curls without delay,
And from a tin box takes a scroll of paper worn and grey.
Then he gave one fond eager glance at his mother,
Trying hard brave boy his grief to smother,
As he gazed on the bed where she lay,
But he resolved to see Madame Malibran without delay.
Then he kissed his mother while she slept,
And stealthily from the house he crept,
And direct to Madame Malibran's house he goes,
Resolved to see her no matter who did him oppose.
And when he reached the door he knocked like a brave gallant
And the door was answered by her lady servant,
Then he told the servant Madame Malibran he wished to see
And the servant said, oh yes, I'll tell her immediately.
Then away the servant goes quite confident,
And told her a little boy wished to see her just one moment
Oh! well, said Madame Malibran, with a smile,
Fetch in the little boy he will divert me a while.
So Little Pierre was broght in with his hat under his arm
And in his hand a scroll of paper, thinking it no harm,
Then walked straight up to Madame Malibran without dread
And said, dear lady my mother is sick and in want of bread.
And I have called to see if you would sing my little song,
At someof your grand concerts, Ah! Say before long,
Or perhaps you could sell it to a publisher for a small sum,
Then I could buy food for my mother and with it would run.
Then Madame Malibran rose from her seat most costly and grand
And took the scroll of paper from Pierre's hand
And hummed his little song, to a plaintive air,
Then said, your song is soul stirring I do declare.
Dear child did you compose the words she asked Pierre,
Oh yes my dear lady just as you see,
Well my dear boy I will sing your song to-night,
And you shall have a seat near me on the right.
Then Pierre, said, Oh! lady I cannot leave my mother,
But my dear boy, as for her you need not bother,
So dear child don't be the least cast down,
And in the meantime here is a crown.
And for your mother you can buy food and medicine,
So run away and be at the concert to-night in time
Then away he ran and bought many little necessary things
And while doing so his little song he hums and sings.
Then home to his poor sick mother he quickly ran,
And told her of his success with Madame Malibran,
Then his mother cried, Oh! Pierre, you are a very good boy,
And to hear of your success my heart is full of joy.
Dear mother, I am going to the concert hall to-night,
To hear Madame Malibran, which will my heart delight,
Oh! well said his mother, God speed you my little man,
I hope you will be delighted to hear Madame Malibran.
So to the concert hall he goes, and found a seat there,
And the lights and flashing of diamonds made him stare,
And caused a joyous smile to play upon his face,
For never had he been in so grand a place.
There the brave boy sat and Madame Malibran came at last
And with his eyes rivetted on her he sared aghast,
And to hear her sing, Oh! how he did long,
And he wondered if the lady would really sing his song.
At last the great singer commenced his little song,
And many a heart was moved and the plaudits loud and long
And as she sang it Pierre clapped his hands for joy.
That he felt as if it were free from the world's annoy.
When the concert was over his heart felt as light as the air
And as for money now he didn't seem to care,
Since the great singer in Europe had sung his little song,
But he hoped that dame fortune would smile on him ere long
The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran
And turning to his mother, she said your little boy Madame
Will make a fortune for himself and you before long,
Because I've been offered a large sum for his little song.
And Madame thank God you have such a gifted son,
But dear Madame heavens will must be done,
Then Pierre knelt and prayed that God would the lady bless
For helping them in the time of their distress.
And the memory of Pierre's prayer made the singer do more good
By visiting the poor and giving them clothing and food
And Pierre lightened her last moments ere her soul fled away
And he came to be one of the most talented composers of the day.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Against The Pain
I'm sick and I’m tired
“And tired” always follows sick
I’m sick and tired
Of all the tears and pain
The never-ending list
Of the hurt and the slain
Is there really anything in this war to gain?
No more tears
No more pain
I’m sick and tired of the suffering I hear everyday
Every time I turn on the news
There’s always something bad they have to say
To hear something good, so much money I would pay
Everyday I cry
For this is everyone’s life
The hurt, big or small
We’re still victims of it all
Those who overcome it
They are the candles
Dimly lighting our life’s darkness
To see a genuine smile on one’s face
Makes better that time in space
poem by Chanel Jackson
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Restless Heart
(coverdale/vandenberg)
Restless heart, restless mind,
Im tired of wasting,
My precious time.
There are times in my life,
I dont know witch way to turn,
When everything I touch
I get my fingers burned...
Dreams to ashes, ashes to dust,
When all that glitters
Is dull with rust...
Restless heart, restless mind,
Im tired of wasting,
My precious time...
Im torn and tattered,
Shattered and worn,
Ive had enough
Trying to live my life
In the eye of the storm...
Every heartache
Leaves a scar on my face,
Somebody reach out
Or throw me a line,
Get me out of this place...
Restless heart, restless mind,
Im tired of wasting, wasting,
My precious time...
Oh, so tired.
Restless heart, restless mind,
Im tired of wasting,
My precious time...
Restless heart, restless mind,
Im tired of wasting, wasting,
All of my precious time...
Restless heart, restless mind,
So Im tired of wasting, wasting,
All of my precious time, time, time
Restless heart...
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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