Breaking The Mold: Poetry For A New Era

Tired of Working

Oh, how I love to work each day,
Eight hours of bliss, come what may, Sitting in my chair, staring at the screen,
Oh, the joy of monotony, it's like a dream.

I love the sound of my boss's voice, Telling me to work harder, oh what joy, what noise,
I'll work and work until I'm dead,
And then they'll replace me with someone new, instead.

My eyes may glaze, my brain may dull,
But I'll keep on typing, never a lull,
I'll smile and nod, pretend to care,
But deep down inside,
I'm pulling out my hair.

Oh, the joys of working eight hours a day,
I wouldn't have it any other way,
I'll sit and stare, day after day,
And dream of all the things I'd rather do or say.