The Window Maker

The hardest of hard work I do make
Not a single slab of glass I may break
Not a single tick of clock I may spare
Employees having fun, less than rare

The voice of my superior is my lord
Follow straight his orders, in my mind bored
The night is done before my job is
The moments of labors never will I miss

After all the dog work of bruise and pain
The least compensation is all that I gain
It worsens the torture, the weight of the slain
No proper protection from the cold, from the rain

And my boss sits in his comfy chair
As he inflates his buttocks with so much air
Here are we, his beloved horses running
Running around the burning coal, sweating

Will we ever turn the fortune around?
And be freed from this locked compound
Silly and crazy it sure sound
But ours is the ability, pound per pound

I pray, not hope that we may receive
The just recognition that most can’t conceive
For it will soothe not just our hungry stomachs
But also our souls, our brains, and our aching backs