The work and Toil of each day
The head pain that cries at noon day The tempest that frolicks in the depths of our being
Tasks in piles that haunts our sleep
The loathe for dawn and lust for dusk
The sweaty palms from the night before
In vain it seems, more work work more,
Toil of hours and little to call ours
The ones at home think we are living life
But we weep at the thought of life leaving us
For days and twilights we continue our quests
For without it we fail life and its tests.
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