Saturday, August 11, 2001


(to the tune of Petula Clark’s “Downtown”)

When you are working for a corporate ant farm
You can always be
Your boss may be smiling while a scythe he is sharpening
And you’ll soon be . . .

Just listen to the standard speech “it’s nothing personal” kissoff
Clean out your desk, get severance check, we’ll see you buddy
Piss off
Don’t let the door hit your ass

Your wife is much harsher now
When they cancelled the cable, your kids had a cow
Cause you’re downsized!
Cut up your credit cards
Move to a hippy farm
Collectors are waiting for you

Michael Moore used to bug you but he starting to make sense
Since since the day you were
You cancelled your subscription to the “National Review”
And stealing “Mother Jones”

Your credit debt is up there with the GNP of Benin
Wife and kids have left you like some squatting homeless tenant
Who’s too qualified

Nobody hires you — they see the fear in your eyes
Where’s that gear from the Army — your old 45?
You’ve been downsized!
Someone has got to die!
You’ve got a big surprise!
Downsized . . .
Your boss won't be expecting you ...

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