. . . as he was hatching his plots . . .

Quack Quack, Etc.

There’s nothing adverse

That I throw in the sauce

As I start to rehearse

The demise of the Boss

But as I descend

To the end of the day

It’s more tough to pretend

To be lightsome and gay

When I feel in my marrow

The building of rages

Brought on by the narrow-

Ness by which he gauges

My quest for perfection

In service to him

Whose extreme predilection

For being quite grim

As you guess is a needle

To nag and annoy

Like the high nasal wheedle

Of a self-centered boy

Until something explodes

In the back of my brain

At some one of his goads

And I go quite insane

So I must kill him gladly

By end of the day

And go off quacking madly

As I’m carted away