Coffin Break Room

Nine-to-five in a mausoleum, punch cards soaked in mold.
Karen from Crypt Ops brings donuts again—still bloodless, still cold.
The vampire in HR keeps biting interns, says it’s “an onboarding perk,”
and the succubus in finance moans through Zoom calls like it’s foreplay or work.

The water cooler gurgles Latin, the copier screams when you scan.
The werewolf from Marketing keeps shedding on the goddamn plan.
Break room smells like sulfur and spite,
and there’s always that one roach
who smokes in the fridge, snorts Splenda,
and quotes Nietzsche like a coach.

It’s the coffin break room, where the dead go to bitch.
Smoking bans don’t apply and your soul gets a glitch.
Got demons on lunch and banshees on call,
and if you’re still breathing by Thursday, you’re not trying at all.

Promotion’s just a darker corner and a desk that eats your pen,
with a screensaver of torment and a password that screams “again.”
No PTO, no weekends, just eternal sarcastic dread,
and the janitor’s possessed but cheaper than hiring the dead.

It’s the only place where the coffee comes cursed and the memes are alive,
but the gossip’s to die for—literally—and the pettiness thrives.