| |
Tell me not, in doctored numbers, Life is but a name for work! For the labour that encumbers Me I wish that I could shirk.
Life is phony! Life is rotten! And the wealthy have no soul; Why should you be picking cotton, Why should I be mining coal?
Not employment and not sorrow Is my destined end or way; But to act that each tomorrow Finds me idler than today.
Work is long, and plutes are lunching; Money is the thing I crave; But my heart continues punching Funeral time-clocks to the grave.
In the world's uneven battle, In the swindle known as life, Be not like the stockyard's cattle-- Stick your partner with the knife!
Trust no boss, however pleasant! Capital is but a curse! Strike,--strike in the living present! Fill, oh fill the bulging purse.!
Lives of strikers all remind us We can make our lives a crime, And, departing, leave behind us Bills for double overtime.
Charges that, perhaps another, Working for a stingy ten Bucks a day, some mining brother Seeing, shall walk out again.
Let us, then, be up and striking, Discontent with all of it; Still undoing, still disliking, Learn to labour--and to quit.
Franklin P. Adams
Read poems about / on: funeral, work, money, brother, trust, sorrow, today, life, world
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10 (0 votes) |
|
|
|