My working life restricts enjoyment
How I long for unemployment
My job obstructs the joy of life
Rebellion inside me cuts like a knife.
Don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful
Fortunate to work, I know it’s distasteful
To crave a life where I am free
Spend all day writing poetry.
Carry on working till I’m sixty eight
By then I’ll be dead, lying in a crate
I’d rather end work at fifty five
On a positive note, I’d still be alive.
Happy growing old, I feel I’ve done my bit
Grab pension whist I can(they may abolish it)
Refuse to wait till the watershed
To get lump sum in a hospital bed.
All that money I put in the pot
Won’t see a penny, wife sees alot
Happy that family are secure for money
One drawback I’m up the swannee.
I wouldn’t need much to keep me goin’
How much does it cost to write a poem?
I’ll buy my clothes from a second-hand store
After I’ve been busking and not before.
Stay at home ironing, or washing my clothes
You’ll never find me watching tv shows
Crossword, sodoku, practice my sitar
Adept I’ll become like Ravi Skankar.
Buy cheap tickets on a national train
Butties are perfect to sustain
Cup of cappuccino is my biggest treat
Zinged off my tits in search of something sweet.
One Indian curry a week is fine
Camping in the Lakes at holiday time
I’ll buy no pricey ready-cooked meal
Veggie stew for balls of steel.
I’d rather be a pauper with heart beating strong
Than rich and shortly to be buried in the ground
I fly in the face of society’s norms
Stuff work… I want… freedom in all forms.
© GARRY CROFT MARCH 2013