Hillbilly R.I.F.

The monthly report said their bookings were short
and their backlog was starting to suck,
it was easy to glean why the orders were lean
in an industry down on its luck.

Their financial guy said their costs were too high,
that they’d need an alternative course –
but they could be redeemed if the management team
would commence a Reduction-In-Force.

No one could know the direction they’d go
or a panic was bound to ensue,
so to lessen the fright, they would gather off-site –
keep the mission confined to a few.

The jobs there were filled by some folks from the hills
they’d recruited for minimal pay –
though some laid a claim to a different last name,
they all came from the same DNA.

The rules of the test were subjective at best
and not one of them seemed to be fair –
their tenure in trade and importance they played
were some factors they’d fail to compare.

The traits they’d select, that they’d closely inspect,
didn’t have much to do with careers –
some factors less moot, like how well they could shoot –
was the way they’d compete with their peers.

A pertinent fact was how well one could track –
kill a bear as it slept in its den,
but a problem arose when the metric they chose
would apply to more women than men.

The ones who’d decline to consume lots shine
would most likely be driven away,
but none there would slug any less than a jug
and could likely drink several a day.

Each threw a knife really close to his wife
and then she’d shoot a grape off his nose,
be it woman or guy, the result was a tie –
there was no loser left to dispose.

The one’s at the top knew their plan was a flop
and the cat was now out of the bag –
they’d failed to ID anyone to set free,
but succeeded in raising a flag.

Chet, in the back was a pretty good hack
and he started a search on the Net –
he pulled up the screen of the management team
and was shocked by the answers he’d get.

Those corporate tools who were making the rules,
were paid salaries way over the top –
they’d not save the day by reducing their pay,
but by firing some folks in the shop.

A fellow named Ward was the head of the Board
like he’d been since the company began
and Hatfield he claimed was his parents’ last name –
just the same as the rest of the clan.

The search Chet would mount found a Facebook account
that was posted by Andy, his boy,
and what he would find from his profile online –
that his real name was Andy McCoy.

The news lit a storm like a mouse in a dorm
and their hillbilly blood would ignite –
to think a McCoy could enact such a ploy
would invoke pangs of anger and spite.

Their stockholder-clout couldn’t vote the man out,
in the mountains, that’s not how it’s done –
he wouldn’t be felled by the shares that they held,
‘cause their stock was attached to a gun.

They mounted a coup like the mountain folks do
and they grabbed up their rifles and knives,
then laced up their boots and their camouflaged-suits –
a militia of husbands and wives.

An ominous sight – torches lit up the night
as the mob made their way down the hill –
but the man that they sought would avoid being caught
and be certain his blood didn’t spill.

Wade had resigned, so the board was refined
and the gene-pool was once again pure –
an inquest revealed all the cash he’d concealed
and the hillbillies’ jobs were secure.

Chet got some praise and they all got a raise,
yes, their coup was a total success –
they’d chased a McCoy from their common employ
and away to a foreign address.

They formed in a group for a pic of the troop
they could post for their brand to extol –
but you won’t have a clue if it’s Bubba or Sue,
‘cause their real family tree is a pole.