The Secretary Chant

My hips are a desk, From my ears hang chains of paper clips. Rubber bands form my hair. My breasts are quills of mimeograph ink. My feet bear casters, Buzz. Click. My head is a badly organized file. My head is a switchboard where crossed lines crackle. Press my fingers and in my eyes appear credit and debit. Zing. Tinkle. My navel is a reject button. From my mouth issue canceled reams. Swollen, heavy, rectangular I am about to be delivered of a baby Xerox machine. File me under W because I wonce was a woman.