Dear Sir,
Take this note as intended,
confirming my departure.
The final joke has ended,
you’ve sucked out all the laughter.
I cannot take the burden
for every single drama,
I’m leaving for my garden,
to where the nights are calmer.
I’m sick of the politics
and the interoffice lies,
breakdowns of relationships,
and the thought of chewing flies.
I’m tired of arguments,
the fighting and the tension.
Work is now a punishment,
you’ll never be Jim Henson.
I won’t accept your demands;
Now I need a new career
that won’t involve a naked hand
shoved deep inside my rear.
I abhor your fantasies,
of those you’re much mistaken;
I like my love lily-green
and hate the taste of bacon.
By now you should have the gist-
this sentence will confirm it:
I hope you all break your wrist.
Fuck the lot of you,
Kermit.
