Call Centre Sally (A Poem)

Call Centre Sally spends all of her time, sadly, sitting and starring at things.
Her stomach's all fat and her butt is all flat from the chair she sits and eats in.

Twelve-hour days of boredom and haze are not worth the pain of the pay she gets paid.
And her friends have all got such high paying jobs with health care and raise upon raise.

When Sally's not working she's sleeping, or burping, or eating, or scratching, or worse.
She keeps Jube-Jubes and mints, popcorn and chips, and a shot of insulin in her purse.

On weekends you may find her drowning in booze,
for her paycheck was used to buy hooch and not food.
If it weren't for the nachos she'd be puking up air,
or some gross stuff from her lungs that should probably stay there.

When Monday comes 'round and everyone's down, Sally's the worst of them all.
Her weekend went by in a blink of an eye and the most she recalls is the smell of the stall where the "encounter" with "Carl" went strangely "awry."

When Sally's not well, her co-workers can tell by the hair-raising smell in her cubicle.
One day last week, while reeking of feet, she coughed up a mouth full of cuticles.
Which she mistakenly used to garnish her food.
But continued to chew 'cause it was tasty and new.

Now, yesterday morning, walking and snoring, Sally fell over at work.
She slipped on a key*, dislocated her knee, and the shock of the fall amputated her foot.

Now she spends all her days relaxed in a haze of morphine and drug induced dreams.
And she's fed all her food mashed through a tube while her heart's kept alive by machines.

*lime pie