The Toiler's Diary

Today I worked hard, today I did my best.
I rose before the sun did and
am about to sleep, long after it set.
I'm weary now, but the feeling is priceless;
that today I did something,
today I accomplished.

I break my back, bend my neck,
all day, every day to feed my stomach,
and others' stomachs.
I have a Princess to feed, fam
and her Queen of a mother.
She toils too, she soils her hands,
she does better what any man would,
because she believes in the
law of returns:
reaping what we sow.

But what did I sow?
Is the hours I've put in,
the money I've got out?
Or what am I reaping?
I need the money,
that's why I work.
To pay my bills, to live.
But is it ever going to be enough,
for the castle I desire to build,
for the empire I desire to rule?
My Princess,
does she think of me as King,
or as the regular dad I've been?
Who is never home when she wakes,
and walks in late when she sleeps.

I am a toiler, and I work hard.
Partly, I'm proud of that.
But who do I work hard for?
Is it for me and my Kingdom,
or for the man who pays me?

The man I work for
making him a thousand-fold of
what he gives to me.
The man who, unknowingly,
holds the fate of my Kingdom
in his fat chubby hands.
Looking at mine,
they are hard and strong.
The nerves are showing
and the blood is flowing,
I can see it. It is flowing.
All these years of hard work,
all these tears from yard work.

I'll stop complaining now
and maybe jump into bed
because I'm needed early
tomorrow at work,
to repeat the cycle;
the toiler's cycle.