Tuesday, March 22, 2005


I normally don’t write about work-related matters here - I have no intention of getting dooced - but (a) this doesn’t get into specific personalities or (gasp!) sensitive information, and (b) I needed to pull something out of my ass to post.

This inspiration for this little poem comes from an edict handed down a couple of years ago from the Powers That Be at the Great Corporate Salt Mine, in which our polyethylene (that’s plastic, folks) salesforce was informed that they would no longer be able to write off shoe shines as an incidental expense.

Of course, if your shoes were to get soiled in the performance of your duties - say, you got some kind of Mysterious Crap on them at a customer’s plant - an exception could be made. Provided, of course, that the salesperson submitted Appropriate Documentation of the Incident. Sounds like something right out of Dilbert, doesn’t it?

Anyway, here was my response at the time...
We sell our polyethylene
In scuffy shoes that have no sheen.
Down at heel and out of luck
Because we cannot spend a buck
To sit upon the leather seat
While wax is slathered on our feet.
Our Captain lacks the slightest use
For troops that tread with shiny shoes.
We spend no money on Shinola —
Don’t drink Champagne - drink Coca Cola.
It’s good to see the Management
Concerned about our betterment.
The bread we save on spit and polish
Perhaps could send our kids to collish.

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