Good grief, been at the office for two and a
half hours already, all I can think of is sleep
and rest and running away, carefully constructed
a list of work on hand and hammered my footrest
together again; we’ve been instructed to furnish
the asset numbers of our foot rests - only good as
weapons – to Mr Rikhotso and our hat stands -
resembling street signs - I hung my pink top on
it to differentiate it from the street signs outside -
to a Mr Lyborn; all these maneuvers have used
up all my available energy, this secret agent now
wishes to attack someone with the footrest
and use the hat stand to gouge out eyes…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem