I wake for work and work for pay.
The morning is not morning yet.
My body is a rented lump of clay.
The swollen clouds oppress the day.
The cold pierces like a bayonet.
I wake for work and work for pay
convinced my inner life has gone astray.
I gain a wage by pointless sweat.
My body is a rented lump of clay.
At night I dream of disarray
of islands, oceans and a fishing net.
I wake for work and work for pay
and instead, I am a cast away
floating as the calm sun sets,
my body just a rented lump of clay.
Tomorrow’s sullen hours will obey
the foreman’s belligerent threat
and I will wake for work and work for pay
my body but a rented lump of clay.
