Poems, everyone. The laddie fancies himself a poet! (Yes, see? I took some song lyrics and changed exactly four words. A poet I be.)
When we grew up and went to work
There were certain bosses who would
Hurt the workers in any way they could
By pouring their derision upon anything we made
And exposing every weakness
However carefully hidden by the slaves
But in the town, it was well known
When they got home at night, their fat and
Psychopathic wives would thrash them
Within inches of their lives.
Money get back
I’m all right Jack
Keep your hands off my stack
The Happiest Days of Our Lives.
Shouts from the Abyss 
Don’t take the brown acid and keep your hands off my Hot Pockets in the staff fridge.
LikeLike
When I was a teenager I once developed a condition known as a Hot Pocket.
LikeLike
Wow! Me too! Though I was able to avoid the brown acid, I did fall prey to the mean green
LikeLike
It is the same and different
LikeLike
I listen to The Wall at work on my headphones. It’s motivation. This came on and I realized they got it wrong. It’s a song about a boss, man.
LikeLike