My first goal for this poem was to create a Dilbertian atmosphere of cubicles and work and malfunctioning motivational schemes. (Mind you this was a decade before Dilbert.)

You're also supposed to be impressed by the density of rhymes: two per line, in very short lines.

An Air of Resignation

I resign, I quit.
I decline to sit
In this blighty abode
With this mighty load.

I am mired in the work,
And so tired as to lurk
Round the drink-machine
Till I think I'm seen.

Now I'm told a hint
From that old skin-flint,
Is I might get a rise,
If the light of my eyes

Can't be seen at all,
Through a screen or wall,
Of the work that I've done,
Not for perk or for fun,

Just to find that the piles
That are lined in the aisles
Never cease to hulk
But increase in bulk.

But I'm losing my hair
From an oozing despair
That I'd never be done,
And not ever have fun...

At my job like the rest
Of the mob who progressed
Past my mill everyday
With me still underway.

So I go, wish me well,
Yes I know, I can tell,
They're all sad I have gone Ñ
They'll go mad struggling on.