It was the work ethic that did it.
He just couldn't get enough.
He would sit for hours and hours
Just contemplating the stuff
Until suddenly it was home time
Getting on for half past four
And he knew that in the morning
They'd have delivered plenty more.
After nearly a week they found him
Slouched dead in his swivel chair;
He'd been hidden by all the work
Piled up in mountains there.
They gave him a long service medal
Posthumously I should think
And following his last wishes scattered
His ashes by his favourite old golf link.
Thus an illustrious career was ended
Without a hint of any shame
For the company couldn't afford
Any slurs to be cast on its name.
And all the work that he'd not started?
They just shovelled into a bin
Knowing if any was important
They'd be bound to write in again