The Boss

I’m sick of your e-mails, your phones and your faxes,
Your credits and debits and pensions and taxes,
I’d love to attack your computer with axes,
And then go to work on your head.

Your big, stupid nose, so immense and preponderous,
Your snide innuendoes and double entendres,
Your joy when Bohemians murder Bray Wanderers,
I wish, oh I wish you were dead.

Your big, stupid smile when you hand out the wages,
Your bollicking sessions that seem to take ages,
I pray that you catch something really contagious
And have to spend years in your bed.

The nicotine stains on your short, stumpy fingers,
The aftershave whiff that just hovers and lingers,
The constant complaints at the cost of Aer Lingus,
Although you face flying with dread.

Your arse so immense and your shoulders so burly,
The hair on your head so untidy and curly,
The way that you manage to leave work so early,
Then talk about swinging the lead.

The way that you never once make your own coffee,
And cheerfully eat someone else’s banoffi,
And if they complain, you just don’t give a toffee,
Your dad must be sorry he bred.

The way that you brazenly fiddle expenses,
Not bothering once to keep up the pretences,
Of being impartial and sitting on fences,
I’d stamp on your face till you bled.

The Microsoft Word that you haven’t yet mastered,
Those crass office parties where you just get plastered,
And God help the woman who calls you a bastard,
That’s where angels fear to tread.