by Noel-Morgan:
The alarm-clock roars ominously
With tyrannical command to threat
The slumbering arm slowly unfolds
To quiet herald presently
The dawn awakes inexorably
‘Tis not the day his cause to fret
Nor matin’s frost to make him cold
But futile toil of untold aim
For money work to money spend
He works all day always the same
Though he will never understand
There is no fun nor is there play
For he who works towards no end
A slave; a curse to all of Man
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