As I sit here, hot and tired,
Wond'ring if this crew should all be fired;
Or if a fire might be lit
Beneath the place where they all sit
And actually make them productive.
But the maņana attitude is so seductive,
I doubt that I should have much luck.
So, probably, I'll pass the buck;
And if there's no one to make the choice,
If in the tumult no strong voice
Will ring out like a man deranged,
Then there's nothing here that will have changed.
And even if a change is made,
If some strong manager makes the grade,
It's guaranteed it won't last long
(and here I know that I'm not wrong),
For no one really wants it to.
Still, the islands must receive their due.
Paradise is what they're all about,
Serenity far from the shout
Of madding crowds and the rat race,
A peaceful, calm, relaxing place
To while away some precious hours
On soft sand beach, with palms and flowers.
The islands aren't for work, you see;
They're for letting what is, be.