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.
4 comments:
Ironically, I read this, deep in post-lunch spite,
Except, unlike you, no hunky face in sight.
But "Voila! a Masterpiece!", the bells in my head, chime,
And then, you dare claim, that you can't rhyme!
@Mahima: There you go again,
making me whine;
Reminding me your rhyme darn it,
Is always better than mine!
The post was removed by author. So, the ring my hat's no longer in..
When you fight a girl with compliments, you can rest assured you'll win. ;)
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