Bastard

Into a suddenly sunny spring dawn A bastard creeps out through a crack in some Until-then, immaculate-looking woodwork.

He inhales the air and smiles, and everything Looks good to him. And so he takes a few Experimental paces, trying out His legs and wondering what clothes to wear: A city suit? Some jeans and a baseball cap? Or an 'I IP my building society' t-shirt?

— Because he plans to walk into an Organisation, To stir things up inside an Organisation.

He is going to Go For It and get others Going, And he's past Reception already, and up In an express lift to a penthouse suite already, And they have an office waiting for him already, And his first dictated letters on a screen. In the other offices, behind their hands, They are talking about him, quite a lot, They are saying, 'How did that bastard get that job? I'd like to know where the hell he came from! I'd like to see his qualifications for doing `What he does.' — All talk, and he knows it, it's safer To talk than to act, the smaller bastards Know the truth of that from long experience, They've learnt to carry on and keep their heads down To protect their own bit of woodwork.

So all goes well, With the faxes slithering out from other bastards In other penthouse suites all round the world, And the graph turning upwards on the wall-chart in The Bastard's Conference Room, the spread-sheets glowing With the marvellous figures the Bastard envisages; And his desk is clear and shiny, and people's smiles Are amiable and innocent, or seem so.

Or seem so . . In his deep suspicious brain The Bastard worries occasionally that their lips May be smiling, smiling for him, but not their eyes.

Still, for now, things go splendidly, the Bastard is seen On 'State of the Art' and 'Man of the Week', and has A 'Room of my Own' and a 'Holiday of my Choice.'

— And then one day a casual conversation Stops short when he enters a room without warning, And another day the people do not stop When he comes round the door, but self-consciously keep talking With knowing looks, and ever widening smiles. The Bastard pretends he hasn't noticed, but He goes back to his office and he thinks `Those bastards could be ganging up on me .. .

I must watch that little bastard with the earring.'

The Bastard is full of fear and fantasy, And the fantasy that made his world for him Becomes a fantastic fear of losing it: His mirror tells him always to guard his flanks, And never leave his knife-drawer open when He turns his back on even his secretary — But he does have courage. It tells him to have it out Face-to-face with his team of Assistant Bastards ' And find out what the hell is going on.

Oh no, they'll never tell him half the story, Oh yes, they'll sit and talk behind their hands, But he can still fire the lot; or he thinks he can.

Today they are gathered round a table, with vellum pads Which some of them are writing or doodling on, And some are self-confidently leaving quite untouched.

It's the ones who pick up no pencils and take No notes who are the most dangerous. They know The result they want without fidgeting about it; Especially the little bastard with the earring. He speaks in code, but it's clear what he's implying: The Bastard is letting the Organisation down It ought to do better; and all the smallest bastards, The shareholders' democracy, have been stirred To demand a different bastard at the top.

This year they're eager for a different scene, This year they're after a man with a different style, This year they'd like a bastard who wears an earring.

The Bastard's hand is turning clammy on His thoroughly doodled vellum pad, The sky is blue for other bastards now.

He sees what is coming next, and he'll speak out first. He rises from the table, he looks at them With steady eyes, and steady eyes look back, Though the lips are smiling. 'I've seen your game!', he shouts, `I've sussed it out — you're just a lot of bastards, A lot of dirty, crooked scheming bastards!'

When the door slams hard behind him they look at each other And shake their heads with humane and pitying smiles. `Poor bastard,' one compassionately murmurs.

The earring says, 'It wasn't easy, but It had to be.' And a third: 'I'm so relieved It's over and we can breathe.' And a grinning fourth In a flak jacket moves into the Bastard's chair As the sun sets golden, and the immaculate walls Begin to look like very porous woodwork.

Alan Brownjohn