This is not a sales poem

I have alluded a few times in this corner of cyberspace to my current temporary position as a telephone market researcher. Leafing through the poetry collection amassed by my sweetest (and furthermore only) wife and I, (which, I am half-dismayed and half-proud to say, is larger than that found in certain alleged bookshops in London**) I could not help but notice that there was a distinct lack of celebratory odes dedicated to this noble profession.  In order to remedy this inexplicable situation in the swiftest possible manner, I downloaded a poetry collage app, fed it a couple of fresh, juicy parameters and - a few nano-seconds and mega-giga-tetraflops later - stared, not unpleased, at this result:



A cold calling we have of it,
Bent double over keyboards, hunched in packs,
Depending on the kindness of strangers to hear
Polite, meaningless words.
Though we’re nodding, nearly napping,
We continue tapping, tapping
Numbers into telephones and
Nothing, nothing more.

April is the cruellest month,
It is the tax year’s midnight and
The Finance Person cannot hear the researcher.
But ours is not to reason why, so much as to
Call up, call up and play the game,
Each day, declaring, hardened in heart anew:
‘We, who are about to dial, salute you.’

**the poetry collection, that is.