The CEO

Nobody’s home

Photo by Semina Psichogiopoulou on Unsplash

The CEO’s like hullo squire,
how the hell d’you do.
The fug away, why don’t you,
 and who again are you?

Sometimes he’s a lady like,
in winsome polka patents pressed;
worked twice as hard to get the part
for half as much or less.

The lady ain’t be answerin’ no-one
she’d rather be late to the party than dead;
ten thousand fifty-goddamn four mails
unreplied, unarchived, undamn read.

A killer, they, our she EO bro,
their plainviewness a mockery.
Rocks just the right amount of moxie
and noisome psychobabble-ese

The killer envies crown and state
their opaque board monopolies
to extralegal violence do
and need be, decree amnesty.

The hater is a poet, true.
They work from arrant memory,
which neither makes nor loses money
or more than flowers capably.