Upon The Far Horizon, Day Poem by Dennis Lange

Upon the far horizon, Day
Sat down, his feet to rest.
He'll stand the morrow without pay,
A servant, not a guest.

For Day arises, comes to wait:
A butler, runner, drudge.
He's still, for charge to set his gait;
Without one, will not budge.

He'll be a therapist, and stretch
Your whims and limbs and mind.
Or, he will nurse you as you retch
If you're the drinking kind.

For dissipation or advance,
He's at your beck and call.
So use your servant ev'ry chance:
He steals - and takes your all.