Wages Poem by Chris Bradshaw

To pay his way
Some people say
A man must be
Not one, but three

First, a slave
From cradle to grave
He spends his life
In toil and strife

Next, a tool
Of incompetent rule
Made to say yes
When no would be best

Last, a clown
Forbidden to frown
In a jester's array
He curses each day

But I have been shown
That life is unknown
And a heart without love
Is a cage round the dove

So remember, my friend
What comes in the end
For the wages you reap
Aren't yours to keep