by Nick Gisburne
Tyrannical, a ruthless, brutal boss
His temper is impossible to tame
Abusing one and all who dare to cross
This cataclysmic hurricane of flame
We find the warped monstrosity a hat
A bucket, nailed directly to his head
Propelled towards the workshop’s acid vat
We ask him how he sleeps at night in bed
Amused to hear a sudden change of heart
A promise to forgive us if released
We tear the weeping maniac apart
And dance around his body, now deceased
Dissolving what is left, we mop the stains
His memory, but nothing else, remains
