I work at home, without a care/that I am in my underwear/My hair's a mess; my teeth unbrushed/and after Five I'm pretty flushed/Potato chips on my keyboard/are swept aside or just ignored/The TV plays, just to my right/I'm now allergic to sunlight/A cyber hermit for my job/I've now become the perfect slob.
Orders placed online today/in the warehouse long will stay/Deliveries will be postponed/and eventually disowned/cuz there ain't enough strong hands/to promote our Christmas plans/Once this problem is debated/have child labor reinstated/Otherwise old Santa Claus/will put your presents all on pause.
I wish I weren't a poet;
Impractical am I.
When I should be out working,
I'm gazing at the sky.
The world needs men of action,
who flinch not at the fight.
Me, I sit and daydream
of just which word is right.
Homer was a poet,
and Milton weren't no slouch.
But my stuff is so tepid
'twould make Joe Brodsky crouch.
I shoulda been a barber,
just cutting people's hair;
I'd still have finer feelings,
but I just wouldn't care.
after you have took a spin/keep an eye on your new Schwinn/do not think of any folly/that would leave alone your Raleigh/thieves will work with lightning speed/to hijack velocipede/Bring it inside; crooks do mock/any kind of tandem lock/Makes you wonder if their strikes/will include now kiddy trikes.
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