I try. I really do.
To make the most of it.
I try. I really do.
To not fall in to the pit.
The pit is known by most of the nation;
It’s big and black and sour.
It is notorious within our nation,
For its destructive power.
It is overwhelming and terribly tragic,
It holds us if it can,
As it works its dreaded magic,
Whilst we writhe within its hands.
It is, I believe, why we have the Sunday roast;
For us workers, a grand meal.
As we try our best to make the most,
To not fall back upon the wheel.
The wheel and the pit, you see,
Have quite a close relationship:
One lulls you in, won’t set you free;
The other won’t release its grip.
And so we try with all our might,
To live our weekends to the full.
To make the most, enjoy our Sunday nights,
But that awful Monday morning has a strong magnetic pull!
Poetic Eccentricity 