They say I’m lazy, feckless, workshy, good-for-nothing, idle,
They’ve cut my benefits until I’m nearly suicidal.
“Get up and go to work!” they cry, “you need an occupation.”
I’ve bought alarm clocks, but they give me tintinnabulation.
It’s really not my fault, I’m not a skiving, scrounging berk;
I simply have this allergy that means I cannot work.
On reading ‘Jobs Available’, my body burns and tingles,
And I’m debilitated by another bout of shingles.
The very thought of office jobs - those dreadful nine-to-fives -
Can bring me out in painful rashes, eczema and hives.
I’ve tried explaining my predicament to social workers,
But all they do is sneer, and say “We’ve had enough of shirkers.”
At last I’ve found a sympathetic doc who knows his onions;
He’s signed me off, describing all my pustules, boils and bunions:
“This man’s unfit to work, I’ve never seen a case that’s Job-ier;
He suffers from a rare disease called Ergasiophobia.”
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