The poor man with his oaken skin
Parchment like and paper thin,
Working late into the night
To alleviate his children’s plight
And straight to bed when he gets home
no chance to dream for soon its morn,
then a quick bite and out the door
to work again, not 9 till 4
For the sun has not yet touched the land
And reaching with his outstretched hand,
He looks through his somnolent eyes
At a clock face which says ‘alas - it’s five’!
His body does not want to work
His bones are aching, his head it hurts.
And moving silently like a mouse
He closes the door and leaves the house.
He starts the car,
turns on his lights,
And begins again
His daily fight.