Author Unknown
Secretary is my trade
Shorthand typist, second grade
With me pad clutched in me hand a
Living breathing memoranda,
I will sit up straight and neat.
With me feet placed close together,
I'll remark upon the weather,
But don't ask me more than that.
Because I haven't got the brain,
To respond.
I find when seated in my chair,
With my conscientious stare,
Stabbing pains come in me eye for
What you write, I can't decipher,
But when I rush in with the teas,
I'll charm the birds right off the trees.
I'll run to do the washing up
And pick the fag ends out the cup.
Until I hear the siren blow,
Then I'll just clock my card and go
Home.
I will not appear to choke,
In conferences thick with smoke,
In vain I'll write the boring minute,
And assume some interest in it,
I won't elaborate the facts,
And I won't come to work in slacks,
For they offend the royal eyeball,
And that cannot be allowed at all,
For what's the point of women
If you cannot see their legs?
And when at last I'm seated by,
The great typerwriter in the sky,
Let me type the letters right,
In the morning and at night,
Let the Snopake grow on trees,
Let men's hands stay off my knees,
Let it be a place harmonic,
With no need for gin and tonic,
Thank you in anticipation
Of your favourable reply,
Craving your indulgence,
Yours sincerely,
Goodbye.
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updated:
13 Mar 2020