Hard Day Poem by Dan Brown

Sitting here smiling; smiling; smiling
and all the while the bile is rising,
simply loathing the heaving –
the moaning and groaning of oldies – and the brats
of twats who ignore them. The smile, though, is frozen.
Sitting here hurting; burning up
and yearning for the churning to stop. Yet still
I sit here talking; talking and talking and talking
– like a puppet show with idiots gawking –
until my mind goes blank, I mumble my thanks
and head for the bank – begging the Lord – to see my reward.