The daily grind

Back to the wall, spikes through the brain

Work's to be done, no crew, no crane;

Deadlines trample by, crushing out life

The little that's left in these grey cubicles of gripe.

Mounds of papers await the train

The train of enthusiasm, of voluntary pain;

The screen goes off at this moment of strife

Just post-lunch trauma and slothful vice.

A walk to the cooler, is hard to restrain

The only possible cure for this mental sprain;

Then on the way a pretty face smiles,

Shoos out the rains, brings back the rhymes.