The Jobs - By Edgar Allen Poe

I

See the workers with their jobs -
Living wage jobs!
What a world of satisfaction their labor foretells!
How our jobs, jobs, jobs,
In the day and in the night
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so laborously wells
From the jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs,
jobs, jobs, jobs-
From the jingling and Ka-ching!ling of the paychecks from our jobs.

II

See the family-supporting jobs,
Golden jobs!
What a world of happiness the work foretells!
In the day and in the night
How they sing out their delight
At the scribbled childrens' notes,
What a happy ditty floats
To the parents that labor, labor, labor
Hard at labor, hard at labor,
At the workbench, in the cube,
What a gush of loving labor wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
Family supporting jobs,
Yes the jobs, jobs, jobs,
Yes the jobs, jobs, jobs,jobs,
jobs, jobs, jobs-
Yes the rhyming and the chiming of the jobs!

III

Hear the loud alarum of jobs-
Exported jobs!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to work or to never,
By the side of the pale-faced fired.
Exported jobs, jobs, jobs!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How we clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror we outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the jobless-
Who want jobs-
Who want jobs, jobs, jobs,jobs,
jobs, jobs, jobs-
In the clamor and the clangor of exporting jobs!

IV

Hear the export of the jobs-
Offshored jobs!
What a world of solemn thought their departure compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace when they've flown!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within our throats
Is a groan.
And the people- We The People-
We who gather by the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Corporations glory in so rolling
On our human hearts a stone-
Corporations not man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
Blood from the jobs!
And his merry bosom swells
With the blood of the jobs!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the bleeding of the jobs-
Of the jobs:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To offshoring of the jobs-
Of the jobs, jobs, jobs-
To the sobbing of the jobs;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the jobs-
Offshored jobs, jobs, jobs:
To the tolling of the jobs,
Offshored jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs-
jobs, jobs, jobs-
To the moaning and the groaning of the offshored jobs.

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(With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)