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.
