Poetry de pukery...

...In a little while I have another Union meeting...I forgot to get my shin-pads and heavy blunt object. (Luckily, the pepper-spray is in the bag and ready to go.) SoI thought I'd indulge with more awful poetry, just for the heck of it...

The Horrible hijinks of Mr. Pim:

Mr. Pim was a man who was sour and dour,
delighting in making his coworkers cower;
bitter like sour wine
that vinegars over time.

He'd hamstring and snipe
at his job through the day,
and his colleagues all prayed
that he'd just go away.
But, alas, no such luck-any wishes for silence
were quelled by his instinct for sharp. passive violence.

Notes to HR didn't ever avail us,
He stole our phone numbers and threatened to tail us...

Instead we all clung
to a lingering hope
that karma and cigarettes
would kill off this dope.
For justice, poetic, realistic and spry
these days was in dwindling shortish supply...

As the days tumbled forth and the years all blew by,
Mr. Pim grew more bitter,
yet still wouldn't die.
Every day, every minute
became much too much,
coworkers and clients all fled from his touch...

Until one last day Death crossed over the bridge;
Pim had choked on some Pocky he stole from the fridge...
And the story's sweet moral; small things have great power--
and be kind to your colleagues, or they'll cheer your last hour...



*gets ready to duck tomatoes*