Patty’s New Job

“It was this or the dole.” I made it real clear.
They still gave me the job: “You’ll fit in well here.”
They were wrong. It was awful. Packing curries in plastic.
Runcett’s Ready Meals’ lies: “Looks great, tastes fantastic!”
The boss, Mr Runcett, finds eye contact tricky,
Stares at my chest and leers, “Call me Dickie,”
It really ain’t easy making chicken madras
With the boss’s hands all over your ass.
My production line neighbours: Big Pete, a fat bastard,
And wee Suzy Bradshaw, reads Heat and gets plastered.
Over our heads some pigeons have nested,
The floor crawls with mice; this place is infested.
We each have a target: fifty units a day.
I’m so bored I can’t take it, my brain’s melting away.
For the sake of my sanity, I pick up the pace.
I aim for a hundred; the thrill of the chase.
That brings Pete with a posse, his hands on my throat - a
Warning - to slow down and not break the quota.
“You’re making us look bad.” “That’s not all that hard,”
I think (but don’t say), “You fat tub of lard.”
I’ve totally had it, I just have to quit.
Get someone else to pack up this shit.
Farewell, Big Pete, so long, Mr Runcett.
This girl is leaving - off into the sunset.
No more will I pack your dry chicken and rice
(I filled my last twenty with bits of dead mice).