"You must push the pen to the column, " my father commanded,
"Your paper isn't inked well, " mother yelled,
Waiting and sighing in perfidy;
Bending over the rough and dull monsters,
Without a moment to digest the water of employment,
Nor space to swallow the morsels of dividends,
embezzled by some mouths hours ago,
Sabotaged by the squeeze of arithmetics,
With lumps and difficult cortege.
"Wait a moment, " will I say,
"Why do I labour? " Will I think,
With tears of horror and fear of terror,
Like a lad under cruel mistress,
Nojob but much studies,
No compensation but more repudiation,
Why then do I labour in vain?