To work a yard!
for man -- or woman -- still might stalk in grass
of this cold block of dying orbits
who for want of gin-sod suck
a yard of work might look much in fashion.
Oh, but how to count that lay of ground
our poor downtrod did plough
and plant, cut and tidy?
For count that dungworm, man -- or woman,
boss or lacky must, if pay was first in bargain struck
You think I fib? So say:
what, if not spousal shark with whip or pan,
brings human to so inhuman plight
as mows by day, moans not by night?
Gin!
O! Gin!
Thy lust turns man -- or woman -- ash!
For who can drink
not paying cash?