To my boss, I'd like to dedicate
This jovial kind of poem
though It really turns my stomach
Knowing that I know him
I'd like to feign concern
For all his woes and cares
And pat him firmly, on the back
Atop a flight of stairs
When he goes on holiday
I like to wish him well
And hope he's going somewhere warm
Like the furnaces of Hell
He meets with lots of people
Such as his clients and bookkeeper
Why can't he meet someone new?
Like for instance, "The grim reaper"
If he should pop his mortal coil
That would not make me grieve
The thing that ticks me off the most
Is, he shares the air I breathe
He bores me with his witless jokes
They're no cause for celebration
The only time he'll make me smile
Is at his burial or cremation
Nobody seems to like him
That's not open for debate
I suspect when he's behind closed doors
He likes to … err… fiddle