An Ode to Bad Poetry

I sit at my desk

Working though at great risk

My back to the door

How many people are on this floor?

I fear the corporate zombies will get me

As I work here busily

I turned my desk around

But only then I found

That should the zombies come

There would be no escape, I'm done!

I go and grab the paper cutter blade

With this I think I have it made.

Finally he comes, all yellow and green

And then I slash him through the spleen.