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Petty Tyrant

It seems that I'm running late
One fragment at a time
It seems I can't recall the date
Or maintain reason or rhyme

I cringe, crying to the boss
About my blanks left in time cards
But it seems she doesn't give a toss
And leaves my name in shards

I submit to her desires
Her craving for my face
Roasted on slow-burning fires
To be consumed without a trace

It seems that I can't satisfy
The whims of a petty tyrant
It seems that she would rather fry
A man who, in turn, grows violent.
Written by crowfly
Published
Author's Note
Based on a nightmare I had last night about past employment.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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