Toil

Without a struggle, life is poorly spent
On follies, fancies, fliting past your eyes.
Another day of work to pay the rent.
Your grim dissatisfaction's no surprise.
The work, it seems, has found a fallow field.
A place where nothing bountiful may grow.
While pressing on the blister makes it yield,
The point of senseless work, you'll never know.
And even if a fair deposit makes
The bossman at conclusion of the day,
Yet never rests your conscious as it shakes
Your head to make some sense of the foray.
For while the wasted hours pile on
And fonts of inspiration be they dried,
Take heart that in a moment you'll be gone
And none will ever care you ever tried.