a memo: <br /> <br />for all of you whom the Fates forsook <br />who worked so hard your soulfingers hurt <br />deep in the bowels of the Mother Church <br />huddling together as Her foundations shook <br /> <br />quoting a Policy no man could possibly pervert <br />thru centuries of greed and holy war <br />condemning rock music and the liquor store <br />then killing the heathens you couldn't convert <br /> <br />you sent your prayers up to the Very Top Floor <br />slaving away with no card to punch <br />begging for manna on which to munch <br />imploring for help with your Divine Chore <br /> <br />genuflection may have bent your backs in a hunch <br />but your supplications have been overlooked <br />the fax machine is off the hook <br />and the Boss is out to lunch<br /><br />Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-sure-knows-how-to-run-a-business/
