At the Jobcentre ©
To all the watchful eyes who cannot see their world...

Hiding behind the paper piles,
Like drones, some are buzzing around...
Glancing at you - exchanging smiles,
I feel hopeless, I've run aground.

The ringing phones - the big white clock;
They're wandering around the desks...
That young clerk looks like Mr Spock,
The pants too short - the austere specs.

Making you wait, hardly on time -
Thank God, our bums on comfy chairs!
I feel a fly glued up in slime,
Four-eyed monster crawls with green hairs!

...Hiding behind flash computers,
You are ready for their questions...
"Anchor's aweigh!" - hands on buzzers,
Never to fear expectations.

"How can I help?" - "...Don't want your job!"
You'd better tune up your fiddles.
Seventies' look with purple top;
The pseudo-star from Pop Idols...

They look at you - some seem to care,
Just like a reality show...
No more red light, I'm off the air,
Telling you when to sign and go.