Poetic-Verses
UP; TO WORK!
Up; to work I hear the call
“It sickens me and makes me sad”
A fool has just declared their minds.
“I'll stay in bed, the winter chills
I'll sleep again, the dreams are sweet”
But not to comfort looks and bucks
You will be poor; it's not a curse.
Up; to work; your tiniest brain
Can bring to you a good reward
It is your sweat; it is your blood;
It is your blood the payer pays.
“They cheapen salads on the slate
With stolen money; so I think”
For fools cannot attain that state
They are too sick to chop the chop.
So, goes his belly hot and dry
And every moment thus he cries
Seeking a helper heaven has sent
Forget his hands helpeth 'im
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
UP; TO WORK!
UP; TO WORK!
