Hold the lift! Hold the lift! You cry,
Sprinting through reception with a mad glint in your eye.
Wait for me! you plead, squeezing yourself in
As the ketchup from your butty dribbles slowly down your chin
There is squishing and squashing; lots of fuss and fussing
As you reach through the throng to finger your floor’s button
The doors stutter shut, and close eventually
Creaking and groaning to an uncomfortable degree
Up, up we go, then stop at the first floor
More creaking and groaning from the opening of the door
Ketchup Man bounds out, having reached his destination,
Not a glance behind him at the silent consternation
As every single person, still trapped within that box
Forms the same judgement, the same cruel set of thoughts
Everyone is thinking, but I’m the one who says it:
“He could’ve used the stairs, the lazy, idle git!”
