This world of work never ends.
Though time moves on and sunlight bends,
in the waning day.

Time to sup and fill up,
the belly forever empty.

Time to think and make a chink,
in the armor of the hard-fought way.

Time to drink and rethink,
why we've come this way.

Until the night comes crashing down,
and the sound of a howling hound,
that won't go away.

Famine, war, disaster and pestilence,
hound us where we stay.

Hound our nighttime dreams,
until the light of day.

When we dust ourselves off,
pick ourselves up,
and off to work we pray.

Work is hard and it's unfair.
Work can poison bodies and the air.

But without work we are nothing,
but empty-- despair.

Mean Boss


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Copyright 2008 © Ronald W. Hull