Wake up at seven, cursing the world,
Throw on some trousers, a shirt and a tie,
Call to my wife to see if she’s up,
But she is as dead to the world as I.
Pour a black coffee, switch on the news,
Showing a car overturned in a ditch,
The face of a schoolgirl, smiling with joy,
Missing or murdered; I don’t catch which.
Slurp down my coffee, dash out the door,
Hurry through streets paved with yesterday’s trash,
Cross past the subway, avoiding the tramp,
And race to the bank to draw out some cash.
Get to the office, quarter to nine,
The morning drags by like it’s a year long,
Dream away throughout a dull meeting,
Wonder exactly where my life went wrong.
Every morning plays out the same,
Everyone dances to this sombre beat.
And so I trudge down a well-worn path,
A pattern that man is cursed to repeat.
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