The Call-Centre Lament

My disingenuity is not real
This script is shallow formulaic crap
Give me a break, think how I feel
They make me parrot this clap-trap

I yearn to sparkle, charm, surprise
But, made to march, I cannot dance
My masters wish to standardise
They dare not leave a thing to chance

So spontaneity is out
And personality as well
I.T. is what it’s all about
Robotic, algorithmic hell

Perhaps it’s better in the end
Don’t humanise my faceless voice
We’ll never meet, nor talk again
So what’s the point of being nice?