He comes to work in no such haste,
And wishes he’s some other place;
“Oh, I believe, ” he always say,
“I’m overworked and underpaid! ”
Yet for every day that Heaven made,
Still he shows up just the same.
After all, he needs the pay;
The wife must eat, anyway.
Much full of regret and reproach,
He criticizes even the mote
Of white dust on his worktable;
He denounces his superior,
And condemns the mistake-prone idiot
At the next table; he cannot
Wait for the hour’s hand to strike five,
To conjure a new-fangled lie
—For when his wife asks, “Where you been? ”—
And end the day with bitter beer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem