As I sweep popcorn off the carpet floor,
And accidentally step in Tango Blast,
I think of when Iíll walk right out the door
And quit this shitty usher job at last.
The pay is terrible, the people bore
Me, and the staff room stinks of sweat and gas.
Rotas are given out the day before
Next shift by managers who canít be assed.
Then pay day rolls around. It could be more,
But itís enough to keep me going for
Another month. Iíve got a job; I should be glad.
Monday, itís back to Blast and idle chat.
I hate pay day. It tricks me into thinking that
This awful usher job is not that bad.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Charlie Jones would be
pleased to hear them.