The Ticking Time Bomb Poem by bryan wallace

Friday evening - half past four
Reads the clock on the office wall.
I stare at it with an angry glare -
'Have you stopped? ' I enquire.

But no - the second hand continues
Its slug-like perambulations around the dial.
The pale face and slow moving hands,
Remind me of my daily contributions
To feathering the nests of others!

Is this for all that we can aspire?
To owe our souls to the company store -
To have our lives ruled by whistle, clock and bell.
Each step up the ladder to 'success'
Brings a bigger cheque with added stress!
Do we have to run our lives like clockwork?
Deadlines fly past but the world doesn't end!

Ignoring the complaints of customers,
Gets easier with passing time and practice -
They need be made realise - their petty little problems -
Are rarely states of national emergency!

Some day the boss will learn
That he is not the centre of the universe.
If we were brought into this world to serve -
Why were independent thoughts ever planted in our minds?

We're told to work hard -
Longer hours to earn more pay.
So we're tired in our leisure hours -
Robbed of our most prized possession.

To give us more money to purchase,
More things for which we have no use.
All we need at the end of the day,
Is a wooden box and a plot of land -
Just 6' x 3'
The Grim Reaper - he pays no overtime…