Now Cruickshank was a loyal worker
Who frowned upon the average shirker,
And in the place where Cruickshank toiled
The wheels of work were shrewdly oiled,
And profits had a way of rising
Which showed the firm as enterprising.
Through years that numbered thirty-one
Cruickshank hated the owner's son--
"Stool pigeon" was the name the boy
Had given him with whoops of joy.
In Cruickshank's breast ambition burned
And so he lived and worked and earned,
Robbed Paul and Peter, had no gout
And made his family go without.
Sly Cruickshank in his stealthy way
Bought shares in the firm for a rainy day,
Existing on a miser's dole
For the hour when he would have control,
Wander in and announce the doom
Of the President's son in the President's room....
So Cruickshank labored and did not shirk
Though his poor wife died from overwork.
But finally came the day of days....
Sly Cruickshank asked for a lordly raise.
When father and son had answered "No"
Expecting old Cruickshank to go
He shrieked the triumph of his soul:
"You are both discharged--I'm in control----"
The President looked at the President's son;
And the son looked at his father's son
In a mirror that hung on the wall nearby
And carefully straightened his yellow tie.
Old Cruickshank waited ill at ease
And felt a trembling in his knees--
The President spoke: "Why, we've just mailed
The notice that this firm has failed."