---

Robert W Service - The Song of the Wage Slave
Work rating: Medium

  When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
  I hope that it won`t be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.
  And I hope that it won`t be heaven, with some of the parsons I`ve met —
  All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
  Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
  Master, I`ve done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands —
  Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
  I`ve done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
  I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
 Threescore years of labor — Thine be the long day`s work.
 And now, Big Master, I`m broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
 But I`ve held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou wilt not judge me hard.
 Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I`ve played the fool —
 Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil`s tool.
 I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
 Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot`s purse;
 Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
 I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
 Everything hard but headwork (I`d no more brains than a kid),
 A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
 Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
 Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
 A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above —
 Yet I`d gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
 I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild —
 Yet how I`d ha` treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
 Well, `tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
 But I`ve lived my life as I found it, and I`ve done my best to be good;
 I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
 Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
 Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
 Down in the ditch building o`er me palaces fairer than dreams;
 Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
 Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
 Master, I`ve filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
 Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
 Master, I`ve done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
 And the long, long shift is over. . .Master, I`ve earned it — Rest.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.