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Below are the all-time best Work poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of work poems written by PoetrySoup members

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The Best Work Poems

Details | Work Poem |

Hard Times


When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.

The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.

The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.

We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.

When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.

Details | Work Poem |

Who Am I

I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend

I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies 
through speaking my thoughts into existence

I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance 
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen

I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery 
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry

I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards

I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels

I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent  of it

I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
Judge that

I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM

Details | Work Poem |

A Woman's Work Is Never Done

"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
a phrase that's often heard.
There's a lot of truth that's hidden,
just in those few words.

She has to cook and clean the house
and get her youngsters off to school.
She does the laundry and the shopping
and teaches kids the "Golden Rule".

She drives them to the movies
and attends their school events.
She satisfies her husbands needs,
her life is real intense!

She asks for little in return,
she just does what must be done.
She feels it's all the woman's job,
and sometimes, it's even fun!

So kudos to those women.
Let's stand and give a toast.
They accomplish all these many tasks,
for the folks that they love most.

Next time the phrase is uttered,
"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
pray that God will bless them all,
each and every one!

Many thanks to all you ladies.
God bless each and everyone of you.

Details | Work Poem |

A Joyless Job

At the window, palms under my chin,
such beauty I see, out the frosted pane,
I was mesmerized, it showed in my grin,
so picture perfect, the snow covered lane.

My daydream was dashed, Mom called from the door,
"time to brave the cold and clear the sidewalk,"
grabbed my winter coat and boots from the floor,
I hate this chore, but knew not to back-talk.

"Don't slip on the ice, watch out for the plow,"
I hear, as orange shovel meets concrete,
shouldn't the county have this done by now?,
this takes all day, with snow piled up in feet.

Why freeze for allowance, I'll never know,
yet, I still find myself shoveling snow.






November 18th, 2014

Sara Kendrick's contest - "Jobs"

Details | Work Poem |

Faith, Trust and Irony

She's dressed in freshly laundered scrubs,
a floral top and pants pale blue.
There for a moment to hand me a gown,
and tell me what to do.

As I'm getting undressed, she checks on a man,
he's in the room right next to mine.
He's crying in pain and begging for help,
I hear her tell him that he'll be fine.

A few moments later, the crying has stopped,
as she leaves she turns out his light.
Whatever she did, it's done the trick,
he'll be able to sleep tonight.

She's back with me now and with her this time,
she has her tools in tow.
It's 3 in the morning and she must be tired,
but if she is it doesn't show.

Thermometer ready to check my 'temp,
lift my tongue and tuck it under.
As she wraps the black cuff around my arm,
I watch her and I wonder.

Working twelve hour shifts,
three days off then four days on.
Has she a husband or any children,
who miss her when she's gone?

Does she like cooking or singing?
Does she paint or like to read?
The needle, she pricks me, with such precision,
I hardly even bleed.

My IV's in place, my medicine given,
she says goodnight with eyes so kind.
Just as I'm drifting off into sleep,
a thought suddenly enters my mind.

To this woman I leave my health in her hands,
a serious matter, this isn't a game.
It strikes me as crazy just how much I trust her,
when all I know of her is simply her name.

By~Michelle Lacey

Details | Work Poem |

We Worked Long Enough


I laugh out loud
every time I hear a politician say,
that the best way to enrich a black person's life,
is to give them a job
Give them some work to do
Labor is the way out of poverty ---
are you kidding me!
They got the nerve,
telling a black person in America
they need to work
Put the shoulder to the grinding wheel,
get to know the sweaty brow feel
Getting employed will solve most of
black people's problems, politicians say
Hard work will bring an honest dollar our way
But I got a problem
with that four-letter word: work
I am bold enough to speak for my people
on this urgent matter
Telling us we need to work some more,
in order for things to get better for us
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, don't you think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at keeping our eyes and voices low
We worked hard
     at pretending that we're slow
We worked even harder
     at grinning and gritting our teeth
But we worked the hardest
     at not getting lynched on a tree
Listen to me:
This is the children of slaves reality,
the living in America experience
of feeling the societal lash daily
Of being looked down on,
of being spurned and frowned upon
Politicians say they helped us all they could,
that entitlements didn't do no good
And only work can get us to where we need to be ...
sounds a lot like old-time slavery to me
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, I would think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at not getting pecked to death by Jim Crow
We worked hard
     at trying to survive under the poverty line below
We worked even harder
     at not telling the oppressor everything we know
But we worked the hardest
     at letting our unchained KKKourage show
Yes! We worked long enough ...
now it's time for us to rest
Will you pay us back for that?

Details | Work Poem |

Response of A Harried Housewife To Her Spouse

“The
children
are always
interrupting.
You never have time
for me,” her husband whined
as he dropped his dirty clothes
right there on the floor by the bed.
Trying not to roll her eyes, she gave
this quick response to her disgruntled spouse:
“The kids, chores and mishaps have me spinning,
and you tell me you feel rejected.
To have a blissful home takes two.
Consideration is key.
I’m also missing you!
To be successful
in our bed, take
time OUT of 
it. . . for 
ME!”

A Double Etheree written May 27, 2012
for David Williams' 
The Three H's Poetry Contest

Details | Work Poem |

My father is a Soldier

My father is a hero.
He stands so tall and proud.
His hands are firm, But gentle.
He stands out in a crowd.
People stop to Thank him.
For Freedom he does fight.
My father is a Soldier.
But he's my Dad at night!

Details | Work Poem |

One Good Thing

In the late 1970s, I was going home on a Friday evening,
and needed a little more fuel in my truck, 
enough to get back to work on Monday morning.
I had $3 on me, pulled into a gas station, 
told the guy who pumped gas to give me three Dollars' worth.  
Back in those days that was a meaningful amount of fuel.  

After a short time, he shut the pump off, came back to me, 
"That'll be $10.35."  He'd filled it up.  

"Well uh... Wow, man, I did say to give me three bucks' worth....  
Three bucks is all I got."
I gave him the three $1 Dollar bills,
then displayed the forlorn and empty chamber that was my wallet.

Another blow, one more little stumble of existence, 
yet again life had dealt with him harshly.  
He dropped his head down and turned it to the side, 
"Yeah, you did say that...." 

This was before my bank had automatic teller machines.  
You were out of money late on Friday afternoon, 
you had to wait until the banks opened up on Monday morning.  
Credit cards were not yet part of my life.  
I told him I'd go to the bank on Monday and bring him the rest of the money.  
Asked if he was working then. 

"Yeah, I'll be here.  Okay..."  He was shrugging as he said, "Okay"
- he knew darn well I wouldn't return.  
He was going to have to eat that $7.35. 

He was an old-looking mid-40s, possibly 50.  
He'd been close to the margins of society, 
maybe even lived right on them.  
He had that "hard look," as if he was used to fate grinding against him. 
He might have been too young for World War II, 
but what about the Korean conflict, that strange proxy war? 
Could be... No way to tell from his clothes or appearance.  
He was getting by, but not in a good way, 
and didn't expect much else at this point.  
Hanging on, a little bit haunted in the eyes. 
Ex-convict?  Maybe.  
As I drove away, he tilted his head back and looked up.  
Was he appealing to God, asking for mercy and better luck?  
Or was he just staring at the roof-like canopy over the fuel pump area, 
wondering what the heck he was doing there? 

Monday came, I went to work, and at lunch got some money out of the bank.  
Even got change for the 35 cents.  
Later in the day, it was busy at the gas station when I returned, 
lots of vehicles at the pumps; 
so I parked around the other side of the building, 
then looked for the guy.  
He was bent over an old, low car, fuel nozzle in hand.  
I walked up to him and was pretty close when I said, "Hey man..." 

There was that haunted look again:  
"Whoa, who is this coming toward me, is there a problem, what's going on?"  
He was thinking that, didn't say anything, just looked at me.  
Maybe he still had trouble with the law out there, somewhere, 
thought I was a cop. 

"I was here Friday, you filled my truck up and I didn't have all the money....?"  
I took out $7 in bills and fished in my pocket, got a quarter and two dimes. 

A little bit of sunrise for him, right there, and he remembered.  
Some light in his eyes.  
I don't claim an especially honest life, this was just one thing I did.  
He nodded and said, "Hey yeah, buddy, thanks - most people wouldn't have stopped back." 

Almost 40 years ago.  He's probably dead by now.

Details | Work Poem |

New Deal

New Deal

Black Tuesday
     October 1929
     Vanishing wealth; stocks decline

Great Dust Bowl
     Windstorms and drought, top soil gone
     Breadbasket empty; nature’s con

FDR
     He’s the man, New Deal imposed
     Opportunities renewed; hopes rose

New Deal Reigns
     Work offered by the CCC
     Saves the lost American dream

Recession Echo
     The winter plunge 2009
     Who will save our dreams this time?

Reality Knocks
     Frustration with Congress, current events
     November elections a time to vent

New Deal Needed
     Americans looking for leadership
     Power from sheep about to be stripped



*For Constance, a Rambling Poet’s “Create your own form, maybe?” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
I work frequently in this form that I choose to call “Headline Couplets.”  It includes a 
headline followed by rhyming couplets that address the concept, person or event in 
the first line of three-line verses.  Probably inspired by my years as a journalist.

Details | Work Poem |

Doctor Ram: The Soup's Golden Voice

our beloved brother from India
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold

board his magic carpet
woven with wit, intellect and insight

soar through sagas steeped in mythology
captivating revelations on cultural tradition
unique perspectives on historical events

clever concepts conveyed with humor
psychology, philosophy, behavior observations
materialize as “Mehtaisms”

stirring the soup
adding spice to the broth
supporting work of members new and old

our international melting pot
enriched by the work of a Literary Doctor

salute a special sage who graces us with gifts
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold



* Dedicated to Dr. Ram Mehta in honor of Joe Maverick’s “Better than Gold” contest

Details | Work Poem |

Where did my life go

Where did my life go ?
 
Oh, how I would like my life back !
It seems the fabric of time has developed a crack,
and through it, I seem to be falling.
Every day, work, work keeps on calling
and my days melt, one into the other,
no time to do all I must cover.
 
Hours are so few
For all I have to do.
Very little to remember of this one’s day
For they are all the same. 
No longer a life, no time for play !
Work, work, work is the frame
of reference, routine of little variation
is my life, sometimes a little creation.
 
This is where my life has gone !
Work, work, work and nothing beyond.
it has penetrated, permeated my dreams.
Work, work, work, no escape it seems ? 

B. J. “A” 2
June 3rd 2012

Details | Work Poem |

Interview

Sitting in a cloak of black conservatism:

I feel my hands,
oily on the desk like shortening in
slate gray cookie pans,
the speedway inside forcing the absence of 
reabsorption,

And my thoughts,
so flippant to implore
if a man with a chartreuse neck tie
can see the long wet streaks
across the cherry plane.

He speaks,
a sequence of interrogatives
common to the bored walls
of serious conference,
evoking tone inflection
in the pattern of polite.

Darest I mention truth?

I am your whore;
infect me with smug integrity,
smack me with false prophet leadership,
just leave some crisp bills
on the nightstand, sugar.

Yet my voice models his wavelength,
relaying back the catchy tired language
of one hit wonders;
eyes brighten,
hands extend
from the man who owns a chartreuse tie.

Sigh.

Still,
complacency
awards a loaf of Wonder bread,
and a two bedroom lower.

Details | Work Poem |

Retail Christmas 2

It's one week till Christmas
And we've had enough
Of grumpy old shoppers
Complaining about stuff.

They hate the line-ups,
They hate the cashiers.
They won't be happy 
Till they have us in tears.

The things they are after
Are long gone from the store.
They find it incredulous
We won't be getting more.

Last minute shoppers 
Are a pain in the rump.
Each night by closing
This place looks like a dump.

One more week to go,
I sure hope we make it
But in the meantime
We'll just smile and fake it.

Details | Work Poem |

Edgar Allan Poe

I was inspired once a long time ago
By something that I read
I never knew such amazing things
Could fill the inside of my head

I always thought that poetry
Was about love or romance,
I never knew it could be dark
Suddenly I was entranced.

A whole new world had opened up
And I could write about it all;
Anything that crossed my mind,
Anything I could recall.

And it was all because of a poem
I read one day at school;
The poem was entitled “The Raven”
And it was just so incredibly cruel,

I fell in love with the poem
And craved others that were the same;
But there was only one author that captured me 
Edgar Allan Poe was his name.

Every poem or story  that he wrote
Was like a beacon showing the way;
I never knew I could write about death
Without worrying what others would say

And so I took leaf out of his book,
And wrote about what I feel;
I was always afraid to express myself
But now it holds only appeal

Details | Work Poem |

Sweet Purpose

I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love

Wisdom is not solely measured by experience
But more by capacity for it
I have glimpsed deep into history
I have sieved through its successes 
...for the soundest advice I could find
Most profound I have received from the greatest achievers in its archives

I am a Student of Life
I am a Wordsmith of Optimism 
And I am a Mason of the Castles of Dreams
This Trinity of Purpose for me goes hand in hand, side by side
Each benefits the other
Issue is, they set me apart from the others

Here I am, young when I should be intoxicated with the fads of modernity
Fortified with skills that are eager to pay the ordinary wages 
But nay, I am not to be beleaguered 
I focus ahead to perceive the greater rewards at the summation of days
For I place most value on the greatest wealth: WISDOM and HAPPINESS

I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love

I choose to commit my heart entirely
To the work I love best
For it is this calling that shall liberate the sanctity of my humanity
The world I dwell in fathoms not a shred of my quest
For it views life through the lenses of reality

True as it may be that my work suffices not to endow me 
...with common currency in these economic times
The rationale of my perception discerns far beyond this temporary mist

Let them roar their throats in laughter at my perceived stupidity
But it is their children and their children’s children that shall benefit most 
...From this shelter of thoughts and dreams that for them I build

I expect no immediate remuneration for my onerous undertaking
For I rationalize it as a selfless gift to humanity
Hence I shall tap deep within to give all can give
I am determined to build this Shelter of Thoughts and Dreams
I have the basic skills hence I commit my willingness and ingenuity
The Good Gods shall present the mortar and bricks

The fear of failure has been permanently exiled from boarding my being
As my eyes are fixated on the prize
I am ready to pay the price

Details | Work Poem |

Journey of Dreams

I 
venture
Into art,
Casting myself,
I am focused with no destination.



_____________________________
For Brian's FIVE & TWENTY contest

Details | Work Poem |

My Chair of Support

My favourite chair
Said to me one night
Hey! Highlander
What you going to write
 
Is it going to be a fantasy
A Haiku or a Senyru
What ever comes from your thoughts
It's from the inner you
 
I have supported and rested 
While you have written your writes
From many an afternoon
Into the early morning light
 
You never get frustrated
You just sit and ponder
For you know there are words
They are just out yonder
 
This partnership we have
Will remain as close as ever
Until the end of our days
Will be the time to sever
 
We will continue to be
One and the same
I to support you
With poetry your aim


My entry into Matt Caliri's contest " Speak chair! Speak! "



http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-2.php

Details | Work Poem |

Clumsy

He was clay potato
in raspberry field
exposed, clumsy
between delicate gossip
     He turned his back
     fingers in fissures 
     abyss separating life
     from living
                       Hand with deep furrows 
                       built huge walls
                       rough rock
                       like he was
                Alone in one dream
                slalom, downhill
                white blindness
                stone
                held high above his head
                                    as a white feather
                                    against evening sky
                                    a bird from his hands
                                    light brightness
                                    A wish, unfulfilled

***

September 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White

Details | Work Poem |

The Workplace Wee

If someone at work saw my Mary,
I’d resign just as quick as can be,
But men have to face this fear squarely,
When they go for a quick workplace wee.

They stand petrified in the toilet,
All three eyes staring blankly ahead,
One flicker, one movement could spoil it,
They might get the eyeful they dread.

But there’s power there, at the urinal -
Take young Billy, the purchasing clerk,
There he stood, between Jimmy and Lionel,
When out came a magnificent arc.

What a rainbow of clear, shining yellow!
His colleagues all gasped through the steam,
Jim gave in, glanced at Billy’s wee fellow,
And cried “Billy! You MUST join my team!”

Behind them, from inside the cubicle,
Where Frank, the big boss, was “in motion”,
A fanfare burst forth, loud and musical,
To celebrate Billy’s promotion.

So ladies, if you get the feeling,
A hunch your career’s not on track,
It could be the porcelain ceiling,
That’s holding us womenfolk back.



5 August 2018

Details | Work Poem |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Details | Work Poem |

The Home Maker

She wore a gingham apron,
battled dirt on hands and knees
while garments washed swayed brightly
on a clothesline in the breeze.

She sewed and worked a garden,
did the dishes all by hand;
her wiggling giggling kids
would straighten up at her command.

Her leftovers were loved as much
as was the ginger cake
she drizzled with that special sauce
she always used to make.

Today they’d call her backwards,
for no feminist was she!
But all she’d ever daydreamed of
was what she came to be.


(For Mac's "Anything Goes Again" contest)

Details | Work Poem |

The Place that Shaped Me

  I left my
  heart   in 
 a magical 
  place. A
  place that
  holds years
 of wonder and
 awe. A place that
 knows me  better
 than any  other place
  I’ve been.  This place
  has changed me and 
     molded me into the
       person I am now.
     The forests, trees, creeks,
    and open skies instilled in 
  me a  love for God’s  works. 
The harshness of the winters has 
taught me to be patient and to endure.     My  small
town is where I  learned the  small-town work  ethic;
you don’t get what you don’t earn  and earning what 
you want takes  a little bit of  sweat  and  tears. Here
I  learned  that  you  don’t  have  to  be  blood  to  be 
family.  Brothers  and  sisters  are  made  throughout
years of school together. We relied on  each other to
be happy. This place will forever  hold my heart and
soul. I  am a small  town  girl  through  and  through. 
It’s who I will always be. Forever. Thanks IDAHO
for  shaping  me  into  something  more  than  I  was.

Details | Work Poem |

Keep It Turnin' to the Right

Oklahoma cowboy, tough coal miner’s son
Born in Henryetta, south of Tulsa some
Raised by daddy’s momma, taught him wrong from right
Daddy taught him ropin’, taught him how to fight
 
Herding made no money, its stock was really down
Mamaw feeling poorly, dad mining at Old Town
December seventeenth, in the year of twenty-nine
Dad was shoring timber, 9th west entry of the mine
 
The gas ignited close to him, he never smelt its breath
It belched out fire and thunder, and everlasting death
Sixty-one they counted, who wouldn’t see the sun
Twenty-five weren't recognized, they buried them as one
 
On that fatal Tuesday, the boy became a man
Had to make a living, had to have a plan
Heard about the oil patch, got a chance to try it
Drill the earth for all she’s worth; keep it turnin' to the right

Some they called him weevil, some they called him worm
Some they wouldn't speak to him, figgered he was just short term
They told him "Open up that vee door; go to get the key
It's in the possum belly, in doghouse number three"

Took his turns at floor hand, at first a little green
Became the fastest broke out hand the driller ever seen
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

The driller called him partner; the pusher called him son
The other roughnecks shook his hand, and took him in as one
Got up on the monkeyboard; learned to spin the chain
Pumped that mud and shed his blood, and worked right through the pain

On a bitter frosty evening tour, in a cold December snow
He saw derricks lit like Christmas trees in distance far below
He saw the fairyland of the refinery, shining through the night
He saw Mother Earth and the universe, all turning to the right

The oil patch was a hard life, moving all the time
But he saved a lot of money, didn't waste a dime
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

Sent his kids to college, working through the years
One became a teacher, the others engineers
He hung up his hardhat; he shed his steel-toed shoes
Then one day he passed away; he'd finally paid his dues

Made it to the Pearly Gates; they handed him his wings
Handed 'em right back to them; said "I don't need these things.
I want to do some drilling. That's my heavenly plan."
They said "Go talk to the Devil then, cause he's the company man."

Old Scratch needed hellfire; he always come up short
Too many politicians and others of that sort
When he heard they had a driller, he jumped up with delight
He danced a jig, "You've got your rig. Keep it turnin' to the right."

Now he drills for hellfire; in the derrick he's got Jake
Buck and Sam on the platform; Sonny's on the brake
They all grin like demons; they're all where they belong
Doing what they love to do, they sing their roughneck song

"We all eat caliche and drink the devil's brew
Play dominos with Satan and skunk him at forty-two
Work all day on Sunday and honky-tonk all night
We're oilfield trash and we'll take cash to keep it turnin' to the right

We all love West Texas; it's like the Promised Land
Horny toads and rocky roads, and even dunes of sand
Dust storms every morning, northers every night
We get tans and freeze our cans to keep it turnin' to the right"

The lingo used around the rig you won't hear much in church
It'll curl your hair and make you stare and leave you in the lurch
So close your eyes and realize it's gonna get much worse
Drink your beers and plug your ears; here comes the final verse

"We p*ss longneck Lone Stars; we f*rt Frito pie
Give us ****, and we will spit some Red Man in your eye
Don't **** with us, or we will cuss and bring you to the fight
We're low class, but we kick *** to keep it turning to the right"

8/10/2012
Coal mining, oil drilling and Hell - Doesn't get much darker and deeper...

Details | Work Poem |

Cash Gone in Tax

Cash
Slashed by
Uncle Sam
Hard earned wages
Burned as income tax
Cash gone like blowing wind
Tax is not like sweet vermouth
This is just like pulling hen’s tooth
Tax going up, paycheck going down
Tax man leave us alone—we need a break!

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Won Honorable Mention
Etheree Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietirch
June 20, 2010

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