There's a fella at work
That I write about
Eighteen feet tall
And a great noisy lout
Most of the time
He's an absolute dick
Completely unfunny
And boring. And thick
He stands and he stares
With hands on hips
His foghorn baritone
Could steer wayward ships
He'd bend over backwards
To help if he could
Swear he'd stay here all night
Don't lie mate, you would
Don't mention the fishing
He'll drive you berserk
It's all that he lives for
And, of course, work
You may well have gathered
From an Opuss or two
That he drives me insane
All the stories are true
And so to today
I shall be nice
He's brought in a cake
His singular vice
Can't believe the words
Coming from my gob
But I mean them sincerely...
...Happy Birthday, Bob.
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