Somewhere in the office complex There is a cult That dances in circles 'round a fire no one set Staring at the flame They scream in chorus, Chanting the words In absentium of forest, No sacrifice of birds
But they are really quite tame people Unlikely to be chosen by the devils For their work I suppose that they just want a contact In the Underworld's Potomac Where the devils lurk And their families at home know nothing; The memos have told them nothing; Their deception is quite complete.
No one in the office complex Uses any salt The only use for Wi-Fi is for recipes For the potions that they claim Give enemies their curses Render useless locks Until someone reimburses them For all their clocks
But no one has it in their job description To sell hallucinogenic prescriptions-- Well, at least, not quite Everyone lists lies on their resumés But none of them know anyway If their pays are right The one thing that they dream about The escape they dream about Is the ritual every Thursday night
No one quite knows What they do in there Pitched percussion; Tufts of hair Investigators Have drawn a blank At astral projection; After that, they sank
The newspaper read that the members of the cult Are all dead now, But in the building where they once worked One hears the echoes Of spells sung in chorus Of dances and words The verses of Horace The faint scent of herbs
I hope you enjoy this tribute to the workaholics of the world.