Work

Oh, I'll write something long.
But, it won't be a song.
Just a li'l ol' fit
or a broken tuned tong.
Perhaps it's a tale?
Or a bit and a rail?
Oh, perhaps it's so small,
and nothing at all.
Turning this way or that
it'll still end up on here,
as a moment of longing
as work disappears.

I'll write something long:
something not very strong.
Not a poem, or journey,
nor a gaze into throng.
I'll write of your love,
and a bit of how rough
things turned out to be
the moment you fleed.
Oh, memory dear
please return what I've lost
for my love of my work
won't now cover the cost.

I'll work through the night,
and work through the light,
and wonder why working
brings nothing but blight?
The minutes pass by
and papers pile high
and reading's not done
when tests have now come.
But there's no time to fret
or worry my head
since exhaustion has set
and placed dust on my bed.