This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
tears that run Away from my eyes Full of hurt and humiliation. In handsome suits and fancy Blackberries They look at me: “Minibar boy”. They don’t know – or maybe they do – What hurt they cause me, Behind their smiles I see insincerity, Their patronising smile piercing me, The “minibar boy”. They hurt and torment me. More tears limp off my face Trying to escape. For all I want is to work And they won’t let me. “Just push the trolley-cart,” he says. “Do as you’re told,” I am told by another one. Am I told what to do! I hate “To be told” For I myself can tell what to do. There is no need “To be told.” Go on, “minibar boy” Pick up those broken pieces carefully.
Piece by piece, pick up the shattered glass. And run away Beyond all suits and Blackberries, Where they can’t hurt you, Where you won’t be “told” And where “minibar boy” takes up an honourable definition.