Just one of the Songs in The heart of the Human-WORK!

Then the song that rides men all their lives

When they have reached the right weight of years.

The song of WORK springs into their bright souls

To punch the broken clock of all their days.

To labour for some bastard in a tower

Who leaks their light with every passing hour.

Those corporate donkeys snuffling in their trough

Are fearful of that thing that sets men free.

The endless driving of the gritted wheel

Grinds the gilded amber of their dreams

And hollows out their core.  Their souls

Are frozen like some fearful glacier;

Or river silted with limitless greed,

Grabbing in its gaping maw all

that is wild and mad and on the budding

Spur.  Those that love their work are few,

Perhaps one or two, while millions slave

Like cattle, herded to an early grave.

They work; they save; they work; they save; they work.