the end of working days

The end of working Days

Lazy, they said I was, the old hands ‘cause I didn’t
want to sit in a foul bus at seven going to work at
a noisy factory, eight hours of recurring boredom

“Work makes you free!” Words written in blood on
an iron gate. “Labor is healthy,” the slaves say, men
whose will is broken, have no dreams only the pub.

A photo in the paper, my contemporaries has
retired from the factory, a golden, a handshake from
the boss they got, and didn’t expect anymore

I’m out if it I simply ran away, my life has been
abundantly spent doing as little work as possible;
yes know I’ll have to forego the golden watch.