Workplace Disgrace

Foolscaps are scattered on the floor.
A snoring watchman's at the door.
The bureau groans and wobbles.
    The ceiling fan's about to fall
    and yet another paperball,
    the trash bin swiftly gobbles.

Espresso makers belch their crass
dysenteric notes at those who pass
by them: ank-ank, shi-shi.
    The inkjet printer dares to fight
    against them with its clacks (too light)
    kat-kat, intrepidly!

The HR's on her daily round—
stilletos drumming on the ground
as she pads by the rows.
    Some arrant rascals squint and stare
    at her ballooning chest, half-bare,
    and haunches while she goes.

Fieldworkers' taxing duty's done:
biking beneath the roasting sun.
They're opening lunchboxes,
    and here's a group with nothing to do
    but loll and drool and snoop into
    another's cares like foxes.

Some posts are for true dossers only.
They jaw all day and act wantonly —
the Digital Marketers;
    but foremen are a step ahead,
    They laze and bind a junior's head
    with managerial fetters.

The analyst's in misery.
The VP's ripped her mind in three:
Cash Flow, Taxes, and Pie Charts.
    Thank God! She is not suicidal
    or has turned homicidal.
    She must have umpteen hearts!
Although the CEO appears
to be a mensch who just adheres
to work stuff diligently,
all he does is try to compel
    (inside his cubic glass-made cell)
    the buxom secretary.

Only the Sales Team, of all teams,
is true — they kill their sleep and dreams;
day in, day out, they burn,
    but still receive the highest blames,
    yet carry out "cold calling" games
    so that we all can earn.

Shamik Banerjee

If you have any thoughts about this poem, 
Shamik Banerjee would be pleased to hear them