Life at G. J. Coles – Poem
Life at G. J. Coles
The buzzer rings, the panic starts,
Grab cash in bags and go
Throw the money in the till
Get ready for the show
The streaming population
Start crowding through the door
When you’re in the middle of
Mopping up the floor
You ring your little bell all day.
You’re on the floor Men’s Back,
You dare to make a sally.
And then you get the sack.
Joanie Rose, so sweet and kind,
Saturday is her day,
Purdew let’s them in at 12,
Then Joanie has her say.
Her voice is heard for miles around
“Serve the B’s yourself”
And things begin to rattle
Even on the highest shelf
Poor old Cooney works so hard,
Each day he travels miles
His wages can’t be chicken feed,
He must be making “piles”!
Our storeman, Ian, happy chap
He rants and raves all day,
We really need a referee,
To settle every fray.
Gillie’s not a bad old stick,
He has a nifty car,
He loves to pass me on the tram
One day, he’ll go too far.
The lean and lanky lad
With rooster strut and air,
Reacts to our tinkling little bells
With a rather vacant stare
With many thanks to my friend, Peggy, who has shared another poem with me. She wrote this one in Camberwell in 1951 when she worked for G. J. Coles, now called Coles Myer.
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