Ode to the Bullshit Job - Poem

 Ode to the Bullshit Job

In towers of glass and cubicle tombs,
Where spreadsheets bloom like corporate blooms,
There lies the fate of countless souls,
Chained to tasks that have no goals.

Consultants circle, jargon flies,
"Synergize!" the manager cries.
No one knows quite what they do—
Not even HR has a clue.

Middle managers guard their turf,
With PowerPoints of zero worth.
Endless meetings, week by week,
Where no one dares to truly speak.

In government halls, the paper flows,
Stamped and filed in silent rows.
Committees form, then meet, then die—
But no one ever wonders why.

A clerk reviews a form thrice stamped,
His eyes dulled like a miner's lamp.
The policy's been changed again—
Just tweak the font, then press "Amen."

There's Social Media Outreach Leads,
For councils planting plastic seeds.
They post about the mayor's cat,
And measure likes—imagine that.

The C-suite flutters in private jets,
Selling visions and safe regrets.
A “Chief Evangelist of Growth,”
Believes in neither—swears an oath.

And down below, the souls displaced,
With master’s degrees gone to waste,
Write reports no one reads,
And feed machines that serve no needs.

Oh bullshit job, thou ghostly weight,
A parody of work and fate.
You pay the rent, you fill the time,
You steal the soul without a crime.

But hush, don’t say it, play along—
Pretend your labor makes us strong.
For questioning the grand charade
Might threaten how the game's been played.

Yet somewhere deep, beneath the script,
A thought arises, sly and crypt:
What if the world was redesigned
For meaning, craft, and peace of mind?

But until then, punch in, sit still,
And send that memo up the hill.
The office lights forever burn,
While real work waits its long return.