He comes to work in no such haste,
And wishes he’s some other place;
“Oh, I believe, ” he always say,
“I’m overworked and underpaid! ”
Yet for every day that Heaven made,
Still he shows up just the same.
After all, he needs the pay;
The wife must eat, anyway.
Much full of regret and reproach,
He criticizes even the mote
Of white dust on his worktable;
He denounces his superior,
And condemns the mistake-prone idiot
At the next table; he cannot
Wait for the hour’s hand to strike five,
To conjure a new-fangled lie
—For when his wife asks, “Where you been? ”—
And end the day with bitter beer.