Some of you have great jobs. You have happy, supportive co-workers; a friendly boss; a liveable income; and meaningful work, which actually helps other people.
This poem is for the rest of us. ^.^;
We wake up in the morningShower up, and settle down
For the front seat of our cars
And the drive back into town
To do things we don't like
In a place that we all hate
Trading insults with our boss
And seeing customers irate.
Then we head out to the lot
Find the keys; let out a sigh
'Cause the day's not nearly over
And we feel like we could die.
Commuting; shopping; eating
Work goes on past 9-to-5;
We have to make a living
But we never feel alive.
Someday when we're retiredWe'll make up for all this heck.
But today there's bills to pay
And so we need that stupid check.
We treat ourselves to little things
To make our lives worthwhile.
A book; a game; a DVD
Something to make us smile.
But smiles don't last forever
While the banker has his day.
We go to bed, get up again
And waste our lives away.
"No one can have their ideal job,"
Our parents told us, too;
"There's so few hours in the day
And so much work to do."
But all our work just disappearsWhen all is said and done.
We never see it touch a life
Or help someone have fun.
"What good is it," we wonder
And consider who to blame:
"Of all the jobs that 'must be done'
How come mine's so darned lame?"
And then we realize
we're the ones
Who got us in this mess:
We bought the games, the DVDs,
The XBox; all the rest.
We didn't care who made them
Or what their lives were like.
We just wanted the lowest price
On that new ten-speed bike.
And somewhere out in BangladeshA woman cries in pain.
Her hands are withered to the bone
But she cannot complain;
Because she needs the money
To eat and stay alive
And raise two daughters of her own
Who'll never, ever thrive.
* * *
Somewhere out there are peopleWho've actually learned to share.
They buy things from each other
And their price is always fair.
They learned from Henry Ford
That "the buyer sets the wage;"
They grow, harvest, make tools and toys
And none of them are slaves.
They don't "make do" with "lesser things"
Their time is quite well-spent
They draw and write; discover each
Their own artistic bent.
And while we curse the cable box
'Cause nothing good is on
They're playing, singing, making friends
To join their happy throng.
Their lives are not like yours and mineWhere "something's gotta give;"
They'll never "make a living"
But they've all learned how to live.
I guess that last part is a bit idealistic. Still, there are people trying to do this out there. If you'd like to learn more, check out this book review (
LINK), or this free online movie (
LINK). At the very least, they helped inspire this.
This poem is (c) by Jared Spurbeck, aka Tachyon Feathertail, and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 license (
LINK). Some rights reserved.
