There at his desk the young man is seated
His shoulders bowed, his head hangs defeated
The letter recei’ed lays there unfolded
Shattered to pieces, the future he’d moulded
All of his effort, his sweat and his tears
All of his work over so many years
Thrown to the wayside, put out with the waste
And nothing left but to leave here posthaste
He could fight it and argue, cry and shake fists
But he’d be grasping at straws, clutching at mists
Bureaucracy had condemned his career
He would fade into hist’ry and disappear
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