Days spent in wrangling reams of turgid text,
The lovely Moonrat wastes her youthful bloom,
Quite lost in penniless, unlaundered gloom;
By boss’s obscure whims she’s sore perplexed,
By obstinate designer cruelly vexed,
Entombed in her untidy little room
To grapple with the Manuscript of Doom;
So ill-paid, unregarded, undersexed.
And yet her colleagues aren’t entirely mad;
The work gets done, the books turn out not bad;
Reviews soon have Robert feeling funky;
And Moonie’s thrilled, she brags to Mom and Dad;
Then home at last, so late and tired, but glad –
To snuggle up to dear Rally Monkey.