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No Rest For The Hard Worker
The bell rings, the shift is over
though a gloom look welded to every mans face.
They march in uniform, not a word muttered
in preparation for their return home.
Hand on wood and the front door is flung open
- ear drums start to take a pounding.
The hallway echoes with chores, for supper is not served until the demands are met.
There is no rest for the hard worker
as the day is half yet but done.
To de-litter the gutter or erect a shed
are regarded as motions of joy in this wicked hour.
Who would have thought pleasure would turn to pain,
so down you go and do as you are told.
For all they do is moan.
For all they do is moan.
