Mike & the Nest

I passed by young Mike
before he clocked in.
The hung over bum,
was late yet again.

He wrote in his time,
while I lingered there ribbing,
‘bout fudging the time,
and how he was fibbing.

Mike circled back
whilst I waited nigh.
'Twas ofttimes a hoot
beholding this guy.

He held tight his sheet
that Dave had filled out,
our boss man pro tem,
that bald headed lout.

Mike’s task was clear
with nary a doubt,
a pesky bird’s nest
that Dave wanted out.

It hung outside high
inside of a light.
Of twigs and of leavings,
Dave thought it a blight.

But Michael stood strong
dismissing his sheet.
He’d hidden McDonalds
in the building to eat.

He blew off his task
and said full of wit.
Let Dave kiss my ass.
I’m not doing that shit.

Then the next day
I read in the log,
how the nest had caught fire—
the light— water-logged.

Along then came Mike,
foul nest in his hand
and fast in the other,
a written—
reprimand.