Where's my drummer?

I crave all of the attention.

Me, myself and I, no censure.

A martyr to the vortex I’ve created.

Pampered, pandered too, permanently waited.

 

Where’s all the adulation.

Respect?  Know my reputation?

Out there every day, making it real.

The boss, out front, I am making the deal.

 

Where’s my drummer? 

Really, could you be dumber?

Because you are my fucking singer. 

Jacked up, inflated ego, gone in a glimmer. 

Loot

2019

Makes me think that ...

In businesses and teams, big and small, as well as rock groups it's important that everyone knows their role. Not surprisingly there is not always agreement about the hierarchy in the organism. There's an urban myth involving Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts. The story goes that Watts punched Jagger on the nose before telling him, 'you are my fucking singer!' Are you drummer, singer or Phil Collins?

Narrator:

It could be you. Join our team of readers.

More people are writing and thinking about work-based poetry. Does this poem make you think of anything? Send your thoughts to editor@workinwords.net.

Send a poem you've written or one you like and we'll share it with other WorkInWords readers.

Screenshot 2019-02-08 16.18.01.png

If you would like to make a recording of this poem, click here to find out how.