Strictly Satire #3 Poem by Kewayne Wadley

Every work place needs a union.
To ensure better policies, compensation for a hard day of work.
Especially the stewards. The ones putting forth the effort to ensure that everything is being done.
The constant changing of polices.
But as odd as it sounds, not everyone does their part.
Yes, you kind sir.
Misusing privileges for own selfish gain.
The amount of work done in a days time isn't as bad as most make it out to be.
But sitting back while everyone else does the work.
The estrange look of surprised eyebrows soon as something does come in.
Granted, this particular job doesn't require eight hours of work.
But every chance, and I mean every chance given, you stretch your time.
Walking around with your smug grin.
A child could simply do your job if it wasn't for the age restriction.
Better at that.
Without the mustache and beard, you could easily be confused for one yourself.
Simply for the demeanor you carry.
Arrogant, snobby.
Deep down. I know you have better manners than that.
The very way you represent this particular union shames the very reason in fact they were created.
An powerful engine with a leaking manifold.
Without the main component, a car couldn't simply begin to run.
Except by pushing it. And that kind of defeats the purpose.
I'd hate to be your supervisor when they get wind of how badly you've represented them