Work Poem by victoria driver

I wake and let a yawning sigh,
The day is dull, clouds in the sky.
With wind in my hair, I set off for work,
From nine till five as an office clerk.
The job is, I'll admit it, lame,
But it pays the bills and beer the same.
Even so, the work is tedious,
No college is slightly facetious.
Will I ever escape this prison?
Or am I doomed to secretarianism?
The walls close an inch every day,
Oh fate, shall I ever get paid?
I think not.