Morris Bishop 
The Perforated Spirit

The fellows up in Personnel, 
They have a set of cards on me. 
The sprinkled perforations tell 
My individuality. 

And what am I? I am a chart 
Upon the cards of IBM; 
The secret places of the heart 
Have little secrecy for them. 

It matters not how I may prate, 
They punch with punishments my scroll. 
The files are masters of my fate, 
They are the captains of my soul. 

Monday my brain began to buzz; 
I was in agony all night. 
I found out what the trouble was: 
They had my paper clip too tight.