Workaholic Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Workaholic, say you, is to do work all the time your nature,
People take beer, brandy, rum, vodka
And in capers respond they,
Which I suggest you not to take,
But as I hear it that
You a workaholic
Which means, means that work is your alcohol?

Even on Sundays and Saturdays, when people do they their half or no duties,
I can see you striding towards the office
With files and handbags,
What the matter,
How did you get addicted to,
Workaholic?

I am asking you a question and you responding to me not,
Just looking into the face and smiling
And asking to let it go,
What’s the matter,
What’s the matter, workaholic,
Is there nobody in the house?

Is your house away from and the load is so much,
Are you under the pressure of the workload,
Are you not a family man,
Are you married or single,
Are you in love with at the workplace,
What’s the matter, what’s the matter, sir?

I am saying, saying to you, but you keeping mum,
What’s the matter, workaholic,
Are you an hosteller or a hotelier
Or is your house nearer to the office
And that’s why the colleagues hand the charges over to you
And move away freely
And you facing the workload, what’s the matter?

The family wanting to go on a tour, wanting to travel to a destination
And you taking them not,
Under the pretext of all official business and workload
To be dispensed with and cleared
And the files have accumulated

And no time is there to picnick and celebrate, no joy to feel in life,
Work, work, only work,
Go on doing work, keep working, all this
And barring it, there is nothing
To recreate and enjoy,
They smoking a cigar
And you seeing them foolishly,
Making tension-free
And you taking tension, not yours, but of others’.

Workaholic, is work your alcohol,
Can you not without it,
As see I you
Working on even Saturdays and Sundays,
No respite from,
No relief from,
You working all daylong
From morning to evening,
Isn’t it?

People talk of the town week,
Day after day passing
And they waiting for the holiday to come,
The office-goers returning by the weekends,
But you in no mood of compromise,
As geared up to work on the days of the holiday too
As work is your alcohol.

The townsmen start their days with the starting Monday,
Then with Tuesday full of dull workload and execution,
Then it continues for sometime more
And from Thursday afternoon
The day of hope dawns it
To show Saturday is not a day, just a half-day
And Sunday a full day of rest, leisure and entertainment.

But you have no leisure, no rest,
Always lost in the job of yours,
No time to think and rejoice,
No time to give to your family,
Always in the work of yours
With your house near the office
And your friends as commuters coming and going,
Staying for a few hours,
All time journeying.