by Nick Gisburne
We like you, like your style, your face. We do.
We’d offer you the job if that were all,
But management directives, nothing new,
Demand we nail you, naked, to the wall.
Our test detected dirty DNA,
A small percentage, granted. Nonetheless,
Your presence in our building, here, today,
Is classified as ‘corporate distress’.
You tried to fool the system. Am I right?
How careless were you hoping we would be?
Your kind, your kin, already lost the fight,
And all the Laws of Purity agree.
You wanted work? A freak, a fraud, unfit.
The Pain Police will take you to the Pit.
