Palace Coup

Trying to look A rather than B mused,
the old low-tech Tycoon prepares
for his last trip over the shaky board
(and that forever squeaking plank
of company policy the slick six detest)
— a high-noon stampede, loosed basely
by these plugged-in prac-joking prols
who want a levelled vote for all,
the Firm's great way be damned!
So now the nails are exposed.
The Tycoon (they say it to his face
only when they pretend they didn't know
he heard) dismantles,
derricks his coat upon the scary stand
next to the cactus. All that glitters
on his tie, his terrible knuckles
and his teeth is gold — they abhor
the way he flashes his bare bucks,
but his old man and his old man
before them (and so fourth) flaunted
the lot, there's a line to hold.
He nuzzles his lordosis
into the ergomaniacal seat he's had
imported up from Norway's north,
fiddles with the clutch
of vanilla folders randomed artfully
behind his bad back
before the meet. He eyes the art
ringing the ebony antique escritoire:
all those ancient urns — heaps
of crackpottery! As for the pic
of silly naked nymphs in a French wood —
Playboy anyday! But the wife. Well,
half a brass razzoo's a razzoo too much
as far as he's concerned. She and her
Rennwah and Fun Hoch!
But to the point (midday). This mob
has gone to jelly and the job
becomes unstandable — where were you
when you needed me, you
lumps of pathetic clay? And now to be
undignified by such a puny gang:
the pits. He stops,
smiles goldenly, comes at the icy desk,
ashes the timber with his thumb.
The gold grin dies, he sniffs.
‘This is my company,’ the Tycoon says.
‘I hereby dissolve the board!’ He knows
he can't, like that, but he adores
reactions. Is not life
just one dirty big bluff? The gang gaze
into his eyes. ‘Just kidding,’ he sighs,
and sits to be crucified.