T'was the Day Before Christmas

(A Visit From Jim the Boss)

by O2BIrish 12/22/2008

T'was the day before Christmas, and all through the firm,
There’s a rumor a’swirling that’s making folks squirm.
An email came out that raised everyone’s hair.
It’s all to confirm: “Jim the Boss will be there.” 

The temps were all bustling with pain in each head,
And keying in figures ‘til each finger bled.
And I being keen and expecting much trouble
Poured me a stiff drink, and then I poured a double. 

The morning was bright when the day had begun,
But clouds had all gathered to block out the sun.
All the flowers were dying we planted last summer,
When up came a limo that looked like a Hummer. 

Then out in the parking lot dogs started barking,
I heard the receptionist glumly remarking,
“With visits like this, things are looking quite grim.
Our luck is not with us, it looks just like Jim.” 

With a little old driver, just like Morgan Freeman
In “Driving Miss Daisy,” I then spied the demon.
With fire in his eyes and a sneer on his face,
He then yelled at the top of his lungs to the place: 

“Accounting! Production! And Marketing types!
Bring sales projections, promotional hype!
There’s no money to spend, so I’m making the call.
So stash away! Stash away! Stash away all!” 

As he entered the office my head started reeling,
The plants began wilting, the wallpaper peeling.
The fluorescent lights started buzzing and snapping
And started to dim from his energy sapping. 

He strode to the board room with purposeful strides,
While underlings swiftly turned tail to hide.
The managers gathered, not making a sound,
As Jim the Boss offered his wisdom profound. 

He was dressed in Armani; with eyes looking shifty,
He lit up a Cuban cigar with a fifty.
I swear as I looked at his case in his hand,
His laptop had sported the Etch-a-Sketch brand. 

His eyes – how they squinted! His mood, unforgiving.
He acted like everyone owed him a living.
He wanted to smile, but his scowl seemed to linger.
He smelled just like someone had pulled on his finger. 

The Cuban he held in lips dangled ashes.
He wanted to know where the company’s cash is.
“We’re not making money, you must get the hint!
We’re missing our goals and we’re sure not a mint! 

We must make concessions, there is no disputing.
We’ll need to make cutbacks; we do, sure as shooting.
So cut back the benefits, perks and insurance.
We must give the stockholders profit assurance. 

We must cut back costs, so we have to do more.
So we’re sending our tech support calls to off-shore.”
Then after he made us all feel like crud,
He left and he slammed the front door with a thud. 

Then he got in his limo, this inhumane screamer,
And I somehow thought he’d soon buy a new Beemer.
But I heard him exclaim through the squealing of tires,