My latest earworm is Bellamy's setting of Gethsemane. I'm working in a strongly and stupidly hierarchical organisation, and a couple of lines make me smile:

The officer sat on the chair,
   The men lay on the grass,   
And all the time we halted there
   I prayed my cup might pass.

I can always comfort myself that whatever blödsinn does happen (which will be bureaucratic, office political, and of a nature involving no bloodsports at all), it will count as nothing in comparison to Picardy 1915.