John Henry vs. Steam Drill © Dimitri Jackson
Labor
How many still labor by the sweat of brow?
Fewer each year chasing that sacred cow.
Riches without effort in a mental race,
giving over our labor to the lesser placed.
For labor has become unclean to the masses,
strongly dividing upper and lower classes.
Much easier to sit in an air-conditioned room,
parroting idiot step-by-step computer games,
than lesser tasks, like sweeping with a broom.
College and a shirt of bleached white hue,
replacing work worn grimy grease blue.
No hot sun on the neck or dust in the air,
just clickety clack of keys and hard-sell fare.
Muscles get flabby and gaining weight,
must go to the gym, worry about what ate.
How many speak of the labor of love?
Sweat in the strain of cooing like a dove?
Getting a few sweet words down on paper?
Trying to think up some new romantic caper?
How many of her lovely would admire you,
out working on crops before the dawn?
No, poets and romantics are a lazy lot.
Lay back and dream while labor they not.
Copyright 2020 © Ronald W. Hull
9/3/20
Love ya!
Jane
Rebecca
Sandie