I was tired of my workspace being darkened like a cave
And of working in the gloaming like a dank and musty grave
So I threw my hands into the air and gave a mighty shout
And now Gene is in the pantry and he won’t come out.
We used to share the table in companionable clutter
But I got sick of sharing and I soon commenced to mutter
“If I don’t get more space and light I’ll never cease to pout”
And now Gene is in the pantry and he won’t come out.
His monitor and keyboard and his CPU are there
Whenever he reboots he gets turmeric in his hair
His chair is by the garbage; there’s no room to move about
Now that Gene is in the pantry and he won’t come out.
Now I control the lighting and the surface where I work
I’m queen of my domain but I am feeling like a jerk
I miss our loves and friendships. There cannot be a doubt
I drove Gene to the pantry. I wish he would come out.