In the heart of Philadelphia, tales are spun,
Of office workers, who've found a new kind of fun.
No longer confined to tall buildings of glass,
They’ve discovered a secret, and let the old ways pass.
“Why return?” they ask, sipping tea from a mug,
Wrapped in blankets, all snug as a bug.
For their pets now assist in the daily grind,
Dogs on keyboards, and cats who remind.
Once they’d rush through the streets, to catch a train,
Now they laugh at the thought, it’s clearly insane!
Why wear shoes, when socks will do?
Or trousers, when pajamas have the better view?
By the Liberty Bell, they’ve claimed a new right,
To work from the couch, both day and night.
The whispers speak of a magical chair,
That massages and warms, beyond compare.
Some say it’s the cheese steaks, so close at hand,
Others believe it's the allure of home-bands.
A guitar break here, a drum solo there,
Who could compete with such domestic flair?
Is it the sunlit corners, or gardens that bloom?
Or simply the solace of their own room?
Whatever the reason, in Philly they stay,
Home is where work is, come what may.
But if you ever find the answer, clear and true,
Please let us know, for we're curious too!
Till then, let them be, in their homebound glee,
For a happier worker, there may never be.
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