By Phil Le Brun

Dress Down Friday

Dust settles on the ground at Abbott Mead Vickers

Red-faced and sat in nothing but our knickers

Dress Down Friday but we didn’t get the memo

Thirty-four Inbetweeners with a ‘big problemo’.

Left looking flushed but we’re not playing poker

No one’s gambling on lazy or feeling mediocre.

What frauds, Watfords in the shadows of years before

Left in the dark without a key for the door.

Time for a dressing-down without a dressing-gown

Faces as blank as the deadest boardroom in town.

But there’s no Lord Sugar and it’s all gone sour

Shrinking into chairs with a whimper and a cower.

Young pups on legs with tails in between

Dogshit on paper and we didn’t seem keen.

The sharpest of our wits left blunted and dull

Walls bristling with work ready for the cull

Forget extermination we’ll badger and we’ll learn

Sometimes to grow, forests have to burn.

So we’ll stay rooted and keep branching out

Show biting, not barking, is what we’re about

You’re not you when you’re hungry

And my stomach’s started to rumble

Hard work beats talent, but you have to stay humble.