Rushing around, in a pool of sweat,
to do good deeds, to avoid the threat,
building the segments, of the day,
in hoping for, some decent pay,
there is no time, to look at watch,
as too long a break, could make a botch,
so, keep the momentum, nicely flowing,
for all good workers, are truly glowing,
at times, this could be deemed distraction,
for it interferes, with the family faction,
as a career sometimes, replaces love,
as a child says, “Nanny’s my Mum!”
the hours can drag, in a tricky shift,
thus, naturally a mind, does drift,
to think of what, could have been,
if persistence followed, a child-like dream,
after traipsing through, commercial mud,
a proverbial bell, makes such a thud,
to signal that shackles, can be undone,
until the next day, of the rising Sun,
then circumstances, come into force,
as homes can either, be calm or coarse,
perhaps, loving coos from the babes,
or in single silence, the landlord’s slave,
either or, people, go find their play,
where now they choose, what’s their prey,
most likely, an act of collecting bottles,
or maybe the fixing, of a broken throttle,
whichever the smell, of ale or oil,
there is a need to sleep, after toil,
then alarm says, “time to burn faster”,
a clear reminder, is the morning after.