You sit in reception
A vacuous bimbo
Reading your mag
And thinking of bingo
You read your magazine
Quite empty headed
Smiling at men
Who’d have you bedded
If you could read our
minds
What images you’d see
Vividly depicted
scenes
Of lust and debauchery
You would be employed
For a very different
job
With balls on your
chin
And a nob in your gob
The men in the
pinstripe
Would have you
promoted
If you allowed
yourself
To be spit roasted
The delivery driver
with
“a package for yer”
Would like to bend you
over
The photo copier
Even the women
Of the other
persuasion
View you in their
fantasies
Being used for
perversions
As for myself you
would see
Your bountiful naked
bod
Breathless and panting
Riding my rod
It’s safer if you
remain
A vacuous bimbo
Reading your mag
And thinking of bingo
This poem was inspired
by a particularly unhelpful, vacuous and obnoxious receptionist in Sheffield
whose complete disinterest in anything but her magazine led me to compose this
ode, fuelled merely by spite and malice.
I would like to
apologize in advance to the large body of very efficient, helpful and largely
sexually unattractive receptionists up and down the country.
