(Hey ho. One man's poison's another man's meat)

 

My money wasn’t made through skill,

My bank of knowledge almost Nil

But, rather, I would wait until

The time was ripe, I’d guess,

To make my brass through stress.

 

On my network I might learn

Some manager in some such firm

Had chucked a sickie while infirm

And under some duress

Had gone off sick with stress.

And that was where Old Coops steps in

With little talent but thick skin;

White shirt and tie and cheery grin

And pin-stripe to impress

To tidy up their mess.

 

A desperate client is solid gold

They’d pay you just what they were told,

Their corporate balls within your hold,

You needn’t even press

When covering staff’s stress.

 

“Oh, this’ll cost a bob or two”

I’ve said those words to quite a few;

But still they formed a life-long queue

To pay me, I confess,

To plug gaps caused by stress.

“Five hundred quid a day’s my bill

(I didn’t want to overkill)

And kept this up for years until

I quit while on the crest –

And time to take my rest.

 

So all you managers out there

Who wring your hands and pull your hair

Who find the job too hard to bear

Who cannot cope with stress

And quit under duress

Think about your Interim;

It isn’t you but rather him

Who’s sipping tonic with a gin

In Rhodes or Marrakesh

Who’s cashed in on your stress.