He's a wonderful talker, who has the art of telling you nothing in a great harangue

In a world full of wasps

I’m a simple worker bee

Not remarkable, nor discernable

From most the staff you see.

A child that longs to scream and shout

And throw his toys out of the pram

Because he has to listen to your tales

As you devise new hopeless plans

Or when I listen to you tell them

How you think it all should work

Even though your executive style

Simply confirms that you’re a jerk

I’d love to strip you of your right of speech

Or leave you in Nepal

I think a dose of realism

Would plainly help us all

You put the dick in contradiction

And you put the spin in spineless

You love garrulous administration

You’re a pig wallowing in waspiness

But instead I sit and wonder

How you have survived thus far

Your attitude is my melanoma

You wish your status matched your car

Driving a Porsche Cayenne twin turbo

bellow at 90 on your iPhone

Call your colleagues by their surname

I trust you’ll likely die alone

But don’t think you cause me lack of sleep

Or undue extra strain

I’d rather worry about higher issues

Like my recently blocked drain

Which is probably due to strands of hair

That collect and clog til blocked.

Maybe you would like it as you’re balding

A gift for you smug, odious cock

You put the dick in contradiction

Whilst you put the spin in spineless

Lecturing me on your power tools

Stop. I wish your voice was cordless

He's a wonderful talker, who has the art of telling you nothing in a great harangue.

- Moliere