It’s been ten months since your last gig and things could not be bleaker,
You’re feeling glum and eating Chum, and living on Job Seeker,
Your clothes are hanging off your frame, you’re naught but skin and bones,
You spend your days in weed fucked haze, rewatching Game of Thrones.
In need? Indeed. You seek on Seek, and Find a Finder’s Fee,
There’s jobs aplenty for gen Z, but is there one for me?
A fifty plus creative in a world of thirty five,
Who’s getting tired not being hired, however hard you strive.
You’ve changed your cv countless times, you’ve lied about your age,
And gone for senior writer’s jobs at junior writer’s wage,
You’ve even told recruiters you’ll consider relocation,
To Asia or to Europe, or perhaps a third world nation.
The job calls for a ninja, gun or sodding unicorn,
But still you know you must apply, despite your silent scorn,
And so your put your name down on the ever-growing list,
And add a little smiley face in case it might be missed.
And now begins a weary wait with both hope and despair,
You check your email fifty times in case there’s something there,
But not a thank you do you get, there’s no rejection letter,
Or any kind of message that could make dejection better.
So now I put it to you on behalf of those applying,
We’ve got a situation here we feel needs clarifying,
It’s o.k not to want us or to think that we are shite,
But please just fucking tell us, have the decency to write.
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