Paul The Bureaucrat Poem by Jack Worthington

He stood on a railway platform to the city
Squinting through his glasses waiting for the train
His wife at home, an unwatered plant no longer pretty
At 9am he arrives at work in the rain.

At his desk he slurps his coffee for which he did not pay
For life is a mulligan, his doeover day by day
At 2pm he bothers the staff with unending knowlege
They politiely humor him, paying no homage.

With each passing week his faculties fade
His gait unsteady as his memory erases
Filled with terror his bed is now made
He paces the office, oblivious to the time that he's wasted.