The furry little beast,
runs round his wheel of life.
Suckles from the teat,
of his water-bottle wife.

His tiny, brown, pellet-lunch,
looks much the same on its way out.
His paintbrush whiskers quiver,
with his wrinkly snout.

Once round the park then home, James,
He might shout to his handsome cabbie,
If not cursed to circumscribe his glass-house,
‘till he’s faint and crabby.

Tiny claws clack keys,
On his dwarf computer,
He replies to tiny emails,
From some imagined suitor.

Hamster tech support calls,
Of empty bottles and squeaky wheels,
He proffers false-sage advice,
Not belieing how he feels.

My cubie walls are glass,
from my office chair I don’t stir.
Like ground-hog day, it’s all the same,
HI, I’m your customer-support Hamster.

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