The Claims Manager
Royal & Sun Alliance
Dear Sir, Madam or J. McNeilly,
Claim no: SC19NN/VYASS/02/TPPK
Mr. Peter Dixon, Dallington House, 13 Flodden Road, London SE5 9LH
Say, J. McNeilly, what’s really the point
Of trying to claim for a limb or a joint?
When in need we’re referred to the legal fine print
To justified claims you’re as hardened as flint.
Ah, the secret is out : you need to make over
The accounts to enable another takeover!
You haven’t quite all opposition acquired,
When monopoly means you can charge as desired.
Yes, the moment will come, which one cannot prevent,
When they need a net profit of forty percent.
And what will they do? Why, the same as all others;
To make extra profit they’d mortgage their mothers.
Down goes the overhead, up go the shares,
And poor middle management’s kicked down the stairs
Tough luck, J. McNeilly, your pension’s too high
We wish you good fortune, farewell and goodbye!
You’ll be out on the street with no cash to your name
With the horrible prospect of working again.
You’ll look to the system. Why not? You’ve paid in,
And drawing the dole is no terrible sin.
But here comes the nightmare, my dear addressee
The Benefits Office is managed by me!
“I don’t understand how you’ve lost your career,’
I’ll say down my nose with an arrogant sneer,
“There’s no other job where you start work at ten,
I doubt if you’ll ever be working again.
This is normal these days, pray no angry defiance!
We’ve copied the tactics from Royal Sun Alliance,
You can go to the ombudsman, rage, moan and shout,
But dear J. McNeilly we cannot pay out”.