I toil night and day leaving no room for rest;
For I thought to myself,
‘Rest is for those whom idleness have impressed’.
So I turned an owl at night and a jaguar during the day
But who gets to enjoy the toils?
When hours of labour take its toils?
I have fancy cage in their assorted sizes and shapes.
Like sprinkled seeds, I’ve them scattered across the sides.
My four legged boxes are in their twenties,
With values towering on high.
I change them as a model would turn up dress.
But at any moment, how many of these can I use?
And upon my glamorous gory exit, whose shall they be?
Poor foolish me!
I’m the centrifugal force of my hood.
No cock crows without my name intoned.
I splash my cash across the town in blues,
And get thousand likes from the highs gone blues.
But with my arms clasped around my cares,
And never freed to care for the lows
Oh foolish me!
From whence shall my credit flow?
Oh that I may heed the creed!
That my worth is neither in growing a hunch bag in my fore
Where I might store grains and champagnes
Nor in stocks pilling away safe in vaults of no gains
But in the seeds that I scatter here and there
On the rich soils of lives in toils
For there lies my bliss in the here and the hereafter.