I'm at war with the man who guards the door.
He hates me.
Won't let me passed unless I shake my plastic pass,
In his face: what a waste.
He's got the hump - someone please give him the bump!
Then I can get on with my lunch,
But may still need to punch this most terrible grump.
He really seems to care that I don't meet his stare.
But I don't dare: I'm too pressed to care.
Too pressed to care.
Stop with the sneers, it won't win you cheers!
Just let me through, clear of you.
To the door, and on to the call-floor.
To help the poor.
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