IT Spies

Tell me, Danny (fat lumbering stupid instrumental one) and Andy (strict boss ready to say no like a gun) do you spy on me and my IP? Down in your basement of worry and monitors, does up pop my little screen, and you gravely say that Fist’s away again venting his spleen? (O, but that is not what I ever mean.) Whispering to my manager, want to sack Fist? Just say – we can do the rest. Laughing at the little keythumps of mine, nosing around my naughty favourite links?

So be it. But remember, cowered in your motley gang in the pub after work, grumbling away about time lost and risky sites, and those who dare to cut away from a Good Use code, I am not paycheques or contracts or signatures or responsibility or clocked-times or politetudes, and while I may only be as free as a fist - I am still a fist.