Boss of all bosses of the
universe.
Mr. know-it-all,
wheeler-dealer, wire-puller,
And whatever else you're good
at.
Go ahead, shuffle your zeros
tonight.
Dip in ink the comets' tails.
Staple the night with
starlight.
You'd be better off reading
coffee dregs,
Thumbing the pages of the
Farmer's Almanac.
But no! You love to put on
airs,
And cultivate your famous
serenity
While you sit behind your big
desk
With zilch in your in-tray,
zilch
In your out-tray,
And all of eternity spread
around you.
Doesn't it give you the
creeps
To hear them begging you on
their knees,
Sputtering endearments,
As if you were an inflatable,
life-size doll?
Tell them to button up and go
to bed.
Stop pretending you're too
busy to take notice.
Your hands are empty and so
are your eyes.
There's nothing to put your
signature to,
Even if you knew your own
name,
Or believed the ones I keep
inventing,
As I scribble this note to
you in the dark.
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