Disgruntled Grunt

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.