Mr. Tweed - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Gift of the gab now drives a cab.
Ladies with nets and boys with bets.
Stiff upper lip will pay no tip.
Starts writing near the end of shift,
pure poetry, it's just a gift.
But unbeknownst and unsuspected
and by his colleagues long detected:
a lot of sitting when employed
will grow at least one haemorrhoid.
And munching salted wrinkle chips
puts much condition on the hips.
So all the good that has transpired
will fade unless we get you fired.
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