My musings and thoughts of the day expressed in poem form. Not particularly full of form but it is what I feels so here goes.
You might picture her, behind her desk, filing her nails?
After all, she will never be recognised for her work.
You fail to see that she keeps the company running,
Takes work home, deals with all the shit that the job brings.
You imagine her to be sweet, compliant and good at making tea.
Not like you, the man, the big he.
It’s okay to speak in a demanding tone,
After all, being a she, she’s used to it. She’ll get the phone.
She should be your boss, she’s more qualified than you,
So why the hell do you ask clients to call and ask for the f****** office girl?
I define a girl as a female minor, a child.
She’s not a child, she’s thirty bloody six.
Underneath her clothing, she is built of skin and blood, just like you.
She’s strong, competent and has a mind of her own.
For once shut up, leave your self-importance at the door and ask her opinion,
You might just be surprised, it might make you think.
Office girl, she’s not a girl.
Don’t call her that, call her the company marketing manager,
The credit controller, the shipping clerk, the supervisor.
Call her by her workplace title unless being condescending is in your nature.
The good news is, if I’m describing you,
It’s not too late to change, and become one of the enlightened few.
Go to work tomorrow, have that chat, admit you’ve been a knob,
Show some respect, start again and in turn you’ll be respected.