Welcome to MPMS, the land of one-ply dreams,
Where the toilet paper’s thin — and so are the budgets, it seems.
The Christmas party? Right by reception’s door,
With sandwiches and pizza — who could ask for more?
This is MPMS, where logic takes a nap,
Where the service is slow and the systems collapse.
Clients complain, they sue, they yell,
But somehow still stay — that’s our business model from hell.
We fire everyone — then panic the next day,
“Wait, who’ll do the work?” “Quick, rehire! And pray.”
It’s chaos in motion, a corporate play,
Of fixing the mess we made yesterday.
You’ll report to someone who’s never done your job,
They’ll nod and smile while standards drop.
No quality checks, no clue in sight,
But hey — it’s fine, we’ll “circle back,” right?
A one percent raise if you’re lucky this year,
And if you stay three decades — don’t expect a cheer.
No farewell, no thanks, not even a card,
Just “oh, they left?” — disappearing’s not that hard.
You can start on Monday, no one will know,
No welcome, no intro, just “off you go.”
And when you leave, no one will say a thing,
You’ll vanish quietly — no meeting, no ping.
Most companies go golfing or bowling for fun,
Team days out, a bit of sun.
But at MPMS, it’s truly divine —
We don’t do anything, and somehow that’s fine.
Another pulse survey hits our inbox again,
“Tell us how you’re feeling!” — we roll our eyes, amen.
We rate it low, we vent our pain,
They read the stats and pop champagne.
“Engagement’s rising!” they proudly say —
‘Cause misery clicked the link today.
MPMS, we salute your mess,
Your tragic charm, your stubborn success.
We laugh, we groan, we stay, we stress,
Oh MPMS — you’re truly the best at being less.