Are you disgruntled? Do you hate your job? Does the company where you work have a long, pretentious-sounding name? No? You don't have a job? Well, pretend you do and pretend it does.
Do you crave revenge, yet feel that the traditional methods like the Festive Xmas Hail of Bullets are a little, well...unsophisticated? Well, take a cue from the ancient Celtic bards and write a satirical poem about it! Satires were actually magic spells that ruined the satiree's effectiveness as a leader and could even cause serious damage to his battle plans.
What's that? You've tried it and all they did was laugh at you real fast before suddenly clamming up & handing you the pink Freudian slip of doom? Well, that was because you didn't know the secret ingredient...
Write a poem—any kind of poem—in which every line is an anagram of your company's name. It doesn't even have to be about the company; if your corporate masters read it, they will assume that it is a biting and fantastically subtle metaphor, and will fear you all the more for your fiendish brilliance. The second requirement is that you write it AT WORK, without the use of artificial aids such as computers or savants. The longer the poem, the better it will work.
Below is the poem that brought my little revenge fantasy to life. Each line is the anagram of a division of the company where I work now.
A hellish crescent moon, mean as torsion of inspiration.
Shiloh, fear an antiseptic Mormon saloon intercession!
A sensational menace looms in their sin of ostrich porn.
Molar morals! Son, I notice a sin—teeth of censorship in an
irrational, mean, moronic, silent cessation of posh hens!
Rash ole misanthropic scions of neon tree nationalism!
No hope here for smitten social animals—sanction? No, sir!
No escape from their colonial shit is insane: most ran on.
Oi! Son, flee imprisonment in this, a crass cartoon hole, an'
Share corn moonshine; lie in almost-prone satisfaction.
Now this company is famous around the world for its incompetence, apathy, greed, and hour-long phone waits! If you're lucky (as I was), the spell sometimes even works retroactively, so people believe that your target has always been this way...
Well, goodnight, my little chickens—happy scratching!