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‘Twas The Week Before Christmas: A Poem About Your Empty Office

'Twas The Week Before Christmas

‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through the town,
An ounce of production, couldn’t be found.
Snow-covered roads should have kept me at home
Instead, I sit here in solace; I sit here alone.

Cubes lined with tinsel, are absent their dwellers.
Who now for the week, sleep in mom and dad’s cellars.
Kim, John and Ellen have taken time off.
Charles is out “sick,” because he is soft.

Except my space heater, there isn’t a sound.
It’s rather peaceful, when no one’s around.
Save the old-timer Karl, who’s down with the flu,
This place is a ghost town, that much is true.

The Keurig is on, but sits there unused.
Different from most days that it just gets abused.
The bathroom is empty so I’ll shit here in peace.
While scrolling through Amazon for a gift for my niece.

No meetings, appointments, or deadlines to meet.
But for appearance’s sake, I’ll open this Excel sheet.
The phone isn’t ringing, no voicemails to check.
Time to loosen this tie that sits round my neck.

Take off the deal sleds, and slide on the slippers,
This Starbucks black coffee could use one Irish nipper.
If he can keep in his desk, a bottle of Jack,
You’d think that my boss would cut me some slack.

But onward I press, I continue my day,
Hoping that Karl has nothing to say.
But just as one headphone, enters my ear,
“Do you have a second? Please come here.”

No more patience to offer, this Holiday Season,
I respond to Karl, “What is the reason?
I can’t really talk Karl, I’ve got too much to do.
Many reports to finish before the Year’s new.”

And just like that, a little white lie,
I’ve taught Karl a good lesson – Google’s your guy.
No longer his hand – all day I will hold.
In with the new, and out with the old.

My inbox is cleared, it’s 9:52.
Until I leave, what’s there to do?
I’m out of the playoffs, no lineups to set.
So I’ll research the bowl games on which to bet.

I’ll take my lunch early, when I return is my choice.
Just get me away from Karl’s stuffy voice.
A sandwich, a burger, tacos or wings?
Decisions, decisions, important things!

Let’s settle on tacos, but what have we here?
Not “naughty” or “nice” but a list of their beer!
Do I indulge? No one will know.
The office is dead ’cause it’s Christmas; Ho Ho!

One couldn’t hurt, nor two, three, or four.
Well shit, now I’m drunk, pour me some more!
Karl will not notice, he’s blind as a bat.
And before we know it, it’ll be five just like that!

So what that I Uber’d back from my lunch?
That’s what real players do, at least that’s my hunch.
Twitter, Insta, Facebook – wash, rinse, repeat.
It’s already 2:00 – isn’t that neat?

Uh oh – email from bossman, what could it be?
“Go home, Merry Christmas, you sir, are free.”
Merry Christmas indeed, back to the bar!
Son of a bitch, where is my car?

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Cush

Mainer born and raised. Boston sports. Miller Lites. Throwing Putters. Engineering is my trade, annoying my wife is my profession. .

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