THE INTERVIEW BY FIONA CUMMINGS

THE INTERVIEW

BY FIONA CUMMINGS

Fingers scratching

Feet are tapping

Don’t sit next to me

It may be catching

Palms are hot

I’ve lost the plot

Mouth is dry

I want to fly

I could sneak out without a fuss

I just can’t face a chat with the boss

Six people have been before me

And left this waiting room full of misery

Why put myself through this agony

Just to earn a bit more money

Will it be worth it in the end

I mean I’m not exactly the bosses friend

So I have no chance

He is leading me a merry dance

Wasted words

Driving me berserk

Stress to be told no

Should I stay or go

Oh I have come this far

And if I get it Ile get a car

Knowing my luck, it will be a Corsa

But if I don’t leave I will get an ulcer

I can’t take any more stress

All done up in this jacket and dress

Oh I’m a mess

God, it’s my turn

Here goes time to learn

Don’t want to crash and burn

Must appear confident

Without being arrogant

They sat there looking so smart

I’m sure they could hear my heart

It’s OK for them all comfortable

Whilst making us so miserable

Sitting in their room of aircon

Coffee in the tap they rely on

A secretary to do all the work

Whilst they take home a pot of gold

Now I feel old

The guy who is interviewing me is about twelve

Streight from a high school shelve

Well, OK that is an exaggeration

But not long out of graduation

Oh I want to end this conversation?

Just tell me now if I am a success

Can’t you see I feel a mess

Tomorrow they tell me

I did my best so let’s just see