Stupid bosses, writhing around
In ignorant blunder.
Nobody speaks to you,
Except for their own contemptible good.
The bad things they tend to keep to themselves,
They who are bereft of soul,
Absent of worthwhile matter,
Stubborn in their office,
Of choice and robotic stagnation.
They're an emblem of the code of Jack,
They utter silently, partying
Hard to a diet of
Nonsense tasks and
Futile audits.
It's hard for the normal people
To understand the horrible
Nature of the cranking and fuming despots.
Baking in backlog,
Faking in figures,
Jesting with their guts,
Green with the envy and
Joy of watching people fail.
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