It’s true that I am not a clerk,
nor am I a soda jerk.
I haven’t got the wish to shirk,
but must I really go to work?

The one thing that’d be worse than workin’,
would be to have to wear a merkin
in order to warm up my gherkin,
while in the shower I be lurkin’.

But in order to be able
to pay my bills (like, for cable),
put some food upon the table,
and maybe buy my wife a sable

(not to mention have assurance
that I can pay for my insurance),

I can see no real good option
(other than perhaps adoption),
than to drag my ass out of that door
and be a dirty wage slave whore
(for today and evermore).

The one thing that is surely certain,
however bad I might be hurtin’,
is that there’s truly no way out
(no matter how I stomp and shout).

No way for me, not for a fox,
(not even for a big old ox) –
except for feet first in a box.

And though my neck feels in a noose
(I do admit, I’m quite obtuse),
don’t think I am a silly goose,
when I say “Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss.”

OK, I admit that’s pretty bad, but, hey give me a break, it’s early.