The Boss – We’ve all got a boss. Sometimes they just try to fit in but can’t shake off what earning their title has made them.
Values, service, desked elbows,
Red, raw and sore,
He holds them close to his sides,
And keeps one eye on the door,
The other on the clock, eager for it to reach four
And taste the fresh air outside.
They gather in the hall,
Receding hairlines, ties off and all,
Double doors slide, wearing their pride
“Seniors and peers, the weekend is finally here!”
Sleeves ups, earrings round, now it’s time to hit the town.
Unleash the hounds! Five shots for five pounds,
They talk about work for a change,
His cuffs unbuttoned, his collar releases his chin,
He holds his pint close to him, calls the beer piss and grim,
But to his mouth he brings the rim,
And downs the golden lager.
His speech lacks formality, his tongue hiccuped and slurred,
He tries to speak the common word, jokes and banter, bitter, absurd,
He calls the technician a skinny nerd,
And laughs the hardest.
His dart soars and nails the 180,
He calls his team the best of mates he’s
Had and glad he holds the top score,
Wants to play one more
But follows the herd out the door.
His ring comes off, as before, with ease,
Now he’s up for a bit of tease,
Without the guilt.
Holding his glass as a hilt
At his waist, a blunt blade,
His best efforts to persuade
Anyone drunk enough to see past
The man who sits alone at lunch.
A platoon leader in his eyes,
All for honesty without the lies,
A person no one could ever despise,
The one who has his own desk.
But you misinterpret what he meant
All of your awareness has been spent
On an image waiting compliment,
They’re calling you David Brent!
Which is highly evident
Because you dance like a cabbage.
You’re the backdrop to every photo,
Keeping your voice quiet and low
When talking about people you know,
There’s a quiet mutiny against the CEO
because you have your own desk.
And your every effort and every try,
Has made your mouth hungry and dry,
Your thought is lost and you seek the food
To bring you back into the mood
For attempt number two.
Believe or not, she’s taken.
You’re massively poor and mistaken
To think you were breaking
It’s not that easy to be nice when you’ve
not spoken more than a ‘Good Morning’ to her.
Monday, values back in place,
Returns to his confided space,
Finishing coffee at a pace,
To gather by the vendor.
To catch up, converse and hear the mess
Of everyone’s attempt at success.
But you’re just there, like the press
To comment and asses
What they’ve done.
Jokes are lost, emails sent
“Next time, let’s not invite Mr. Brent
And everyone can come to mine.”
His tie is collared and his collar tight,
He’s going home late tonight.
Teeth are sparkling, white and clean,
The rage against the fax machine.
His sleeves are down, headache and frown,
Forehead almost facing the ground.
His words mechanical, far from cynical.
Nothing more than computer bleets
As the working week repeats.