Sore Siesta

Now does the bell chime,

To signal the end of siesta time.

All men are prompted back,

To the work that they’d left slack.

Oh, how I had wished for a siesta then,

With puddles of sweat beneath the working men.

And now when it all seems done,

I need some rest from resting and fun.

At the zenith of toil, all that I’d dream

Was of freedom to sleep and let off some steam.

And now after doing that and more,

I want the ache of sweet labour’s sore.

But alas, now I am out of a job,

Something that I had wanted a lot.

With no overseer, no aims at all,

I feel the lifeblood in me stall.

Oh gods above and below,

Help me out here, my progress slow.

I don’t want a future set,

Only two meals and a place to let.

Where once I had desired riches and gold,

I now ask for a job to hold.

Something small and mundane will surely do,

So I can feel pride in my worth, and a surge in confidence too.

My aim now is to help out men,

Who go through this problem like I have been.

I would offer jobs and let them feel,

That they too now are a cog in the wheel.

To those of you who could relate,

I offer you a job today.

Go out and do a good deed or two,

For random strangers, only few.

And do this not for the gratitude earned,

But rather for the things you will learn.

For every “Thanks” that you receive,

The thread’ll grows longer for the tale you weave.