Well here it is, the Season Hearty! Time to plan the office party. Time to quell the boss' fears That it will be like yesteryear's, In short, a brawl, a rout, a riot (The committee would deny it) And to pledge there'll be decorum Worthy of a churchmen's forum. Here's one for sure we'll never ask: The guy who brings his own hip flask And spikes the Coke of some unwary Eighteen-year-old secretary; And the scourge of North America Whose talk is office esoterica. Another type we shall not miss Is that old fool who tries to kiss Directors' wives, the boss' daughter (Would you believe, he even caught her Underneath the mistletoe And claimed they were simpatico!) A barrelful of drunks we'll roust: The ones who come already soused, The kind who throw the dinner rolls, Who dance on tables, bent like trolls, Who drop their ice cubes down the backs Of ladies, causing heart attacks, And then pass out and must be borne Like Hamlet from the scene forlorn; Shouters, roarers, feisty brawlers, Backwards-into-punch-bowl fallers, Hotfoot-givers, umbrage-takers And assorted troublemakers. A spouse or two we won't invite: The Homer of the family fight Whose version of the latest quarrel Is broadcast from McLean to Laurel, And the bride, so shy, well-bred, You think she's stoned or maybe dead. Not to mention that old trout Who insists on speaking out To her husband's supervisor For a raise -- we'll ostracize her. O, this will be a proper bash With vodka, Scotch and sour mash. No paper cups, but glasses yet, And caviar and shrimp croquette. No breakfast foods all sicklied o'er With salt and oil -- Lord, what a bore -- Or things with peanut butter smeared, Or dips whose drips festoon your beard. Just wait and see, this Yuletide rite Will be sedate, refined, polite. We'll pass the time in mild converse With pinkies curled and lips a-purse, With nuts to crack and wine to mull, It sounds delightful, yes -- and dull.