This is the tale of Mr Waite,
The Company Secretary’s mate,
One of the Board’s triumvirate.

In his large office he sits in state,
And lights his pipe to fumigate,
Whilst visitors sit outside and wait.
He’s always there to dissertate,
And has been known to dattertate,
Although less likely to expiate.

He expects his staff to not be late,
(At least, no later than half past eight)
In his canteen to clear their plate
And on the fare to commentate
Saying “That nosh was really great”
And definitely not expectorate.

Whilst he’s always ready to nominate,
To delegate and to elucidate,
He’s never inclined to procrastinate
And can sometimes be most obstinate.
Not prone to exaggerate, I do recall that in ‘78
He was guilty of an underestimate
Which caused him first to instigate
An enquiry and then to investigate
And later propitiate and conciliate.

Stuck with a project to contemplate
He’ll work on it until really late,
Do his very best to prognosticate
And in his report to interpolate
So that next morning he can pontificate
Expecting all to emulate and satiate,
And perhaps even inspired to adulate.

Incompetent workers he’ll not tolerate
(One of them called him a reprobate!)
A stance from which he won’t deviate,
Ready to incriminate if not discriminate.
Wishing that he could flagellate,
He just proceeds to annihilate
And finally kick out of the factory gate
Or, as the Daleks would say, exterminate!

Nevertheless, it is with great joy I state
Happy Christmas, Thomas Henry Waite!

© Aubrey Sinden