The Restructure
The thrum of gossip’s heavy din,
The sneer of staff alive with murmurs —
Who is out, and who is in.
No parachute, no sudden rip‑cord,
No life‑buoys as they take the dive;
Those bastards with their shining clipboards
Have spent the morning sharpening knives.
The team is generally tearful,
The bosses safely avert their eyes,
And HR are professionally cheerful —
Though they are paid to lie.
The master plan was carved in shadows,
Conceived where consequences die,
A clumsy blow dealt in the dark,
Where too many tell a lie.
It’s endless meetings every minute,
It’s petty gossip, whispered spite,
It’s keep your head down, guard your corner,
Or walk the pavement out of sight.
It’s straining blood and sinew,
To keep abreast of where they move;
It’s all to play for in the circus —
When there is nothing left to lose.
