Lament of a Warehouse Lemming
The boxes are light, the boxes are heavy
I wouldn’t mind so much, but the ladder’s too skinny.
With a grunt and heave, I push the first up,
Then climb the blue steps to stick it on top.
With a weaver and a wave, my stack tilts away
The stack’s falling! This is just not my day.
After a quick climb to help the stack behind
I finish my hollering, the stack’s no longer falling.
The pallet’s too small, the pallet’s too big
Who’s picking this up? Don’t they have a rig?
I tug my cart over and load up another box.
What’re in these things? Are they books or are they rocks?
Around the pallet I go, to cover it with wrap
And dizzy I trip over the wayward pallet jack
But at last it’s done, and I give it its label
Then fight with the tape dispenser, its teeth to disable
If anyone asks, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’
It’s not the racks or boxes, whatever they be holding
Nor the tags, the tape, or peanuts that go flying.
It’s the scale for the pallets, and the hernia from pulling.
Brown linted, freshly taped, I go home to my bed
To sleep off the exertion, once I know I’ve been fed.
No, no, I don’t mind what I do each day.
I count, I pick, what do you mean ‘shipped yesterday!’
- May 14, 2002
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Eh, anyone out there?
