"Pencil-pushers", they were called,
the men who scratched, who scrawled,
with in-tray high and patience low,
their hearts without a glow.
"Clerks", those faceless flocks who dwell
in cold dank office, oh empty shell!
with eyes inched close to flick'ring screen,
their souls all small and mean.
Those silent screams tatooed on hearts,
that make us write in fits and starts,
unknown to hearts gone cold and grey
who know not of hell's bright sunray.