Phil Charters

Rookie - 31 Points (11/05/1958 / Australia)

The Billings Curse - Poem by Phil Charters

The day does dawn, and with a yawn,
I get up from my bed.
A morning wee, a cup of tea,
and for my car I head.
Upon the road, I bare my load,
a cross I can't deny.
To pay my loan, and keep my home,
to work I now must fly.

I can't be late, my family's fate,
weighs heavy on my mind.
Up ahead, someone is dead,
the traffics in a bind.
With fear I muse, my bosses fuse,
is short, my arse he'll fry.
I swear and curse, in ugly verse;
I know he thinks I lie.

I get to work, the boss does lurk,
behind a shipping crate.
I cringe in fear, he chews my ear,
and asks me why I'm late.
He thinks I lie, so I reply,
"my mother she is dying."
He's eyes do flare, a fearsome stare,
he makes me feel like crying.

With spirit crushed, and face thats flushed,
I work with anger burning.
My mind does roam, back to my home,
for my wife and kids I'm yearning.
Day after day, to get my pay, this trauma
I must bare.
With a despot boss, ‘I'm at a loss,
I tell you its not fair.

It's end of year, I need a beer,
this work it has no end.
Panic driven, no quarter given,
it drives me round the bend.
The work must flow: the systems slow;
it all must happen fast.
Systems gone, tempers worn,
this madness cannot last.

The billings curse, I need a nurse,
I'm wound up like a coil.
My boss the jerk, he brings ‘more work, '
my blood it sure does boil.
Frustration bound, I look around,
with anguish on my face;
but there's no time, to whinge and whine,
as against the clock I race.

I watch the clock, and as if to mock,
the time does quickly pass.
I quicken pace, ‘I'v lost the race, '
this whole scene is a farce.
And then it's time, I'm feeling fine,
for home, I now can go:
but then despair, "it's just not fair, "
the boss just tells me "no."

Two hours back, ‘I'm on the rack, '
this deadline I'll not meet.
Adrenaline pumping, mind thats thumping,
and the boss turns up the heat.
With sweat on brow, the pressure now,
is beyond my breaking point;
so still uptight, I say, " goodnight, "
and I leave this cheerless joint.

I go to bed, with aching head, but sleep
I cannot find.
For sleep I yearn, as I toss and turn,
but work is on my mind.
Day or night, a depressing plight,
the company always rules;
every day we track, to work and back,
we must be bloody fools.

The day does dawn, and with a yawn,
I get up from my bed.
A morning wee, a cup of tea,
and for my car I head.
My wife does run, with toasted bun,
"there'll be no work today."
I ask, "why not? " She says, "you clot.
There never is on Sundays."

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 27, 2012

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