Jerry Behr Number 2

Rookie - 0 Points (3/2/1951 / Netherlands)

The Job Networks - Poem by Jerry Behr Number 2

The old lame man finished with Centrelink's paper
rigmarole, was now forced to look for work. While
limping along the car park, he noticed some syringes,
next to the walls strewn with graffiti works,
he limped into the offices of the Job Networks.

In Australia there is an El Dorado where the roads are
paved with gold. Politicians from all political divides
say there's manna from heaven and ample work for
all, so come under our hunkydory sky.
Dolies using the Job Networks should look and try.

In these offices the brethren are the forgotten ones,
staff question these brethren if they are feigning. The
lame bloke grimaced with pain, arthritis was chewing
at his hip as he sat looking for work with his cohorts.
Centrelink and Job Networks check dolies for rorts.

Stock markets abound with investment opportunities,
Australia is an El Dorado, Taj Mahals in
Brickveneersvilles is hot apple pie. Micro-Macro
economics is hunkydory says the P.M. and bold,
votes are to be had where brickveneer is sold.

The government has created a new invention, the
Job Network treadmill for all the doled, a paper chasing
trail for all dolies and if errors are made on forms it's
too bad. They must tread the treadmill or be breached,
age discrimination is an understanding not reached.

In the lucky country and its affluence there's ample
work for all, employment didn't die, so bureaucrats
looked for new ways so that dolies don't bludge.
Staffers don't like the brethren's negative attitude,
they must look and look they weren't given latitude.

The old bloke rings around employers even though he
has no pedigree name, due to his hip he can't be
jack-of-all-trades. As he vainly rings employers they
ask why the old guy hadn't worked for 20 years,
he hobbled around in pain, he holds back the tears.

The staffers at the Job Network realize as long as
the treadmill wheel turns the staffers get paid. Their
hunkydory treadmill was paid with their souls they
sold. So the staffers do what they are told,
otherwise their hunkydory treadmill will fold.

Endlessly the Job Network treadmill must turn, least
one falls amongst the brethren and wouldn't that be
the pits. So the staffers also sold conscience's eyes in
order to handle the unemployed by methods sly,
they lived in fear they started to spy.

After doing his two and a half hours at the treadmill
vainly looking for the phantom jobs there, the old
lame bloke said his goodbyes to his brethren still at
the treadmill. Clutching his painful arthritic hip,
he hobbled out of the Network on his homeward trip.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 12, 2011

Poem Edited: Friday, May 13, 2011

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