What Work Might To Do You

Work might get in the way of resting on your laurels.
Work might take your hangover sideways toward illness.
Work might play with its guns as you’ve cleaned out the sheets.
Work might pace around screaming “more socialist seats!”
Work might leave you in stitches, and cry out, “you fool!”
As you waltz passed the fire escapes
With their smokers out too,
And their plants half-forgotten but flourishing.
Work might make you wish all the wishes were promising.
Tripped passed the overcoats
And spilled on the lawn,
Work might pay you in share-holds and bonds.
Work might look you dead in the eye
And call you by name
And treat you like family
Like you seemed not the same
As that work which lies to you,
Feeds you on sin
‘Til you’re up-selling customers
Who’ve just barely come in.
Yea, work can be meetings
And work can be lunches.
Work can be tests
That you’re failing in bunches.
Work can be fulfilling
But equally not
With exhaustion so telling
You’ve nearly forgot.
Work can be fancy.
Work can be plain.
Work can be fun.
And work can be lame.
Work can be utterly crying and terse.
And without it, you’d starve
So it could always be worse.

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