All the office is a stage...

All the office's a stage,
And all the managers and employees merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. First, the mewling intern,
Puking in the photocopier room. Then, the whining junior,
With shiny lanyard and fresh coffee stain, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to Monday's stand-up. Then the sighing lover,
Sending Slack hearts with a woeful ballad
Made to his colleague's avatar. Then the mid-career soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E'en in the project's mouth. And then the middle manager,
In fair round gut with eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered exec, with specs on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manager voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound when praising synergy. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second burn-out, sans pension, sans purpose, sans will to stay—
Sans bonus, sans promotion, sans respect, sans everything.
Sans toilet paper in the loo, sans coffee that's not tar,
Sans projects that don't fade away, sans hope beyond the bar.
Exit, pursued by deadlines... and a TPS report delay.
Cue the frothy pint. The only raise we get today.


Послушай как это звучит на https://suno.com/s/n4cRtRjEexfhmLyh