(Musical Monologue)
The office boy, a misanthrope,
Addressed and licked an envelope
With envious thoughts his brow was dark
He wished he were the junior clerk
Blessed with privelege and joy
Of bullying the office boy.

The junior clerk with pen in hand
Had just received a reprimand
And wished as he went up and down
His columns with a bitter frown
That he could lord it like that grim
Old senior clerk who bullied him.

The senior clerk in wrathful gloom
Came from the managerial room
And muttered, as his visage flamed
'A scapegoat, I am always blamed
And bullied when mistakes occur.
I wish I were the manager.'

The manager sat ill at ease
With his responsibilities
'I am a salaried surf,' said he,
'None of the profits come to me,
But all the worry, how I yearn,
To be the head of this concern.'

The head of that concern came in,
His brow was black his face was thin
He moaned, 'Life is a weary blight,
My wretched liver's never right
Ah, youth's the time of health and joy,
I wish I were the office boy.'
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