You make me able to work a nine to five job,
one where I sit and hate life,
while becoming a slob,
with you as my wife.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
one where I come home tired,
with a silent sob,
about how I will probably be fired.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
where I never travel far,
because my back has begun to throb,
and I quit wishing upon my shooting star.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
where I never see art,
and that is just the start.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
because you are vacuum that cleans me up,
the light at the end of the day which revives me,
the foreign land which I have not seen,
and the beautiful tapestry which puts me in awe.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
because you are everything,
that a nine to five job is not.