Epitome of a Working Day's Drudge
The hours tick by before my eyes,
As I lay tucked up, in my bed.
Even Bo peeps sheep have now returned,
And still the lack of Zzz’s.
Pounding seconds tick away,
Seem to echo in my brain.
Back and forth and back and forth,
Reminiscent to coaches on a train.
Oh, what I hear myself reply,
As the shock begins to bite.
With blood shot eyes that settle down,
As the room now fills with light.
As a foot now stumbles on the floor,
Now lurching from my bed.
In a bleary haze that follows,
From that workman in my head.
A vow to become teetotal,
For at least that what was said.
From the dark roast coffee granules,
To raise me from the dead.
What a happy sounding chappie,
From the airway’s morning show.
Why should he be feeling cheerful?
With five days of drudge to go.
Now boldly going forward,
As through the door I trek.
Filled by last night’s antimatter,
From a star ship what the heck.
© N Windle 2020.
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