Here's Your Hat, but What's Your Hurry?

Now once an office manager A secret sorrow had, For one thing that he had to do Would always make him sad.

By reason of some glaring fault, Or maybe, things were slack, To one or to another He had to give the sack.

It might be Tom, the office boy, A regular young rip, Or perhaps a Toiling Tillie Of the daily comic strip.

Now he chanced to hear a lecture And how an ancient race, Help that was inefficient Or superfluous, would chase.

The cruel and hasty methods Of this country, young and crude, Beside this ancient courtesy Seemed most extremely rude.

You send another party To the one you wish to fire, Who tells the chosen victim That he's worthy something higher.

His talents here are wasted, And though "we'd miss you so, We've no right to detain you—" And he takes the hint to go.

I can't promise it would answer, Which I very much regret, For my friend, the Office Manager, Hasn't tried the system yet.