Song of the Middle Manager - Jane A. Robinson

G C D7 Oh, he's a middle manager without a claim to fame D7 G Except a high partition and a sign that bears his name. G G7 C And he blusters to intimidate the members of his staff D7 G Who wait until he leaves the room before they dare to laugh. G C D7 He makes no great decisions, and his insights are but rare, D7 G But he calls a million meetings, and he's almost always there G G7 C To record in finest detail what we do not need to know; D7 G Then he turns it into memos that descend on us like snow. G C D7 Writing memos, memos, memos to directors and to stenos, D7 G C G Little squares of colored paper by the reams, reams, reams. G G7 C Writing any piece of rot that impinges on this thought D7 G C G Even though it isn't worth a hill of beans, beans, beans! Oh, he's a middle manager, he is without a doubt; You know him by the quantity of paper he puts out. He is slow to catch a meaning and he won't pick up the slack, And if you're a fellow manager he'll stab you in the back. But behind the mounds of clutter that he keeps for their effect, He belabors second fiddle so the bosses won't suspect That he's far outrun his talent, so must overcompensate Lest they find him out and send him back to monitoring crates! Writing memos, memos, memos to directors and to stenos, Little clumps of colored paper, how they swell, swell, swell! Though a manager efficient finds the spoken word sufficient, No one sees you have been working when you tell, tell, tell! Yes, he's a middle manager with collar snowy white, And all he does is pass the buck, procrastinate, and write. There is no idea so trivial it fails to self-inflate When typed on a Selectric or produced in triplicate. He has no real importance, so he has to make it plain That he's got a busy writing hand if not a busy brain. By immortalizing every word that leaks from pen to pad And saving for posterity those thoughts he hasn't had. Writing memos, memos, memos to directors and to stenos, Little squares of colored paper by the piles, piles, piles. But the file clerk isn't smiling as she goes about compiling Pretty folders of confetti for the files, files, files! Oh, he's a middle manager, and though he sort of tries, He's the prototype for whom the Peter Principle applies. He will get no more promotions and should not have got this far, So he's always busy writing with his office door ajar. He has a silver fountain pen that's monogrammed in gold, And custom memo pads that are impressive to behold. But his output, though voluminous, is boring and absurd And all that we can figure is, they pay him by the word! Writing memos, memos, memos to directors and to stenos, Managerial excreta that we dread, dread, dread! But we know how to feel better. . .we'll turn on the paper shredder, And we'll watch the pretty rainbows as they shred, shred, shred!