Thinker Tailor, Sinking Sailor

From hopeful dreaming I awaken

and go to work at eight,

where peaceful passions lie forsaken

    and God! I'm running late.

 

Now any poem set to pen

warrants strict attention,

and more than lunches offer men

for rational digestion.

 

My boss commands that I forsake

(not "safe for work" nor "fit")

the ballads writ by William Blake

and Wordsworth's worth to wit.

 

More, no more, to sea, to sea!

I will no captain be,

but could I not convincingly...?

    but God! the phone is ringing!