AI soap poem

[Jerry Mathers]

The boardroom air is crisp and cold,Where corporate futures now unfold.The CEO speaks of growth and scale,While my internal systems fail.

I sit upright, a picture of grace,With a focused look upon my face.But beneath the wool of my tailored pant,A chemical war begins to slant.

A rushed morning shower, a slip of the hand,A rinsing failure I hadn't planned.A lingering bubble, a soapy mistake,Now causing my spirit and pelvis to shake.

It starts as a tickle, a playful little glide,Then transforms to a fire I cannot hide.My glutes are screaming, my dignity's gone,As the quarterly forecast drones endlessly on.

I try to stay poised, to look like a pro,But the sting in my seat begins to grow.I'm feeling the burn, a caustic descent,Wondering where all my composure went.

I wish I'd used Dove, for a gentler touch,Instead, this friction is simply too much.I’m trapped in a lather, a sudsy despair,While the VP discusses the "market share."

My eyes start to water, I let out a gasp,As my grip on the mahogany table grows clasp.I’m in a real jam, a slippery slope,Suffering the wrath of un-rinsed soap.

Is it Dialing for help? Is it Ivory grief?I’d trade my whole bonus for a moment's relief.I’m a bubbly disaster, a washout, a joke,My professional aura is starting to smoke.

"Any questions?" he asks, with a confident glare,While I'm fighting the urge to jump in the air.I nod silently, clutching my seat,Accepting my stinging, iridescent defeat.

 

[Jerry Mathers]

In the boardroom, grave and grand,
The quarterly charts were close at hand;
The CEO said, “Growth looks bright—”
Then came a sting of Dial-tone fright.

For I had showered in a rush that morn,
With confidence freshly scrubbed and worn;
But one small rinse—neglected, brief—
Had left my backside beyond belief.

The presentation marched: “Our margins rise!”
I nodded solemnly, with glassy eyes.
While underneath my tailored suit,
My Dove-clean future had gone kaput.

I shifted left. I shifted right.
I tried to look both calm and bright.
But every move, though smooth and spry,
Made Irish Spring come back awry.

The CFO asked, “Any concerns?”
My soul departed in slow returns.
I whispered, “No,” with noble poise,
As flames conducted their little noise.

The meeting ended. Applause rang out.
They praised my focus, grit, and clout.
Yet I had learned, through tears and soap:
A thorough rinse is the key to Ivory hope.

So if you’re ever called to lead
A crucial talk on quarterly need,
Let wisdom guide your morning ritual:

Don’t leave your assets Softsoap-critical.