My bus slopes slowly through the fog-clogged streets
Of humdrum London's all-too-early morning;
I'm off to work as hundreds hug their sheets
Or stretch, quite unimpressed by this day's dawning.
The sun is yet to rise; the cold cuts deep
Despite the layers of woollen winter clothing.
As others snatch some extra, precious sleep,
Snooze-buttons pressed, I must press on, still loathing
The chores I have to do, the daily drudge
From eight till six, to earn myself a living.
The folks that can lie in: I do not grudge
Their comfy slumber, since I feel forgiving
For it's not long till my next holidays
When I, like them, can laze and laze and laze.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem