In honor of Dorothy Parker's birthday today (she was born August 22, 1893), VF Daily is reprinting her classic poem, "Our Office: A Hate Song," which ran in the May 1919 issue of Vanity Fair. Parker, a founding member of the Algonquin Round Table, wrote for the magazine during its early incarnation.

I hate the office;

It cuts in on my social life.

There is the Art Department;

The Cover Hounds.

They are always explaining how the photographing machine works.

And they stand around the green light

And look as if they had been found drowned.

They are forever discovering Great Geniuses;

They never fail to find exceptional talents

In any feminine artist under twenty-five.

Whenever the illustrations are late

The fault invariably lies with the editorial department.

They are always rushing around looking for sketches,

And writing mysterious numbers on the backs of photographs,

And cutting out pictures and pasting them into scrapbooks,


They said something.Then there is the Editorial Department;

The Literary Lights.

They are just a little holier than other people

Because they can write classics about

"Brevity is the soul of lingerie', said this little chemise to itself";

And "Here are five reasons for the success of the Broadway plays".

They are all full of soul;

Someone is forever stepping on their temperaments.

They are constantly having nervous breakdowns

And going away for a few weeks.

And they only come in on Saturday mornings

To hold the franchise.

They tell you what good training editorial work is.

But they don't mean to stay in it—

Some day they will be Free Lances

And write the Great Thoughts that Surge within them.

They say they only wish they could get away from the office,—

That makes it unanimous.

Then there is the Fashion Department;

First Aids to Baron de Meyer.

If any garment costs less than $485

They think you ought to give it to the Belgians.

They look at everything you have on,

And then smile tolerantly

And say, "Sears, Roebuck certainly do a wonderful business, don't they?"

They are forever taking pictures of prominent Wild Women

Dressed as brides and kneeling at Property Altars.

And they write essays on Smart Fashions for Limited Incomes,—

The sky's the limit.

There is the Boss;

The Great White Chief.

He made us what we are to-day,—

I hope he's satisfied.

He has some bizarre ideas

About his employees' getting to work

At nine o'clock in the morning,—

As if they were a lot of milkmen.

He has never been known to see you

When you arrive at 8:45,

But try to come in at a quarter past ten

And he will always go up in the elevator with you.

He goes to Paris on the slightest provocation

And nobody knows why he has to stay there so long.

Oh, well—

You can't expect to keep him down on the farm.

I hate the office;

It cuts in on my social life.

Photograph from Culver Pictures.