My name, it is not Jack,
And I do not have a spring.
There is not a handle for you to wind,
That will make me laugh or sing.

Not a painted smile upon this face,
No rosey glowing cheeks
But the look of pure exhaustion,
That has built for years, not weeks.

No hand of man doth force me in.
It is just what I've become.
A dweller in a metal box,
To endure an engines hum.

I'm sure that Jack will feel lonely too.
Despite that ever lasting smile.
But brief moments of freedom we are gifted,
Are like droplets in the Nile.

So minuscule and fleeting are such times.
You dwell upon what you choose.
You gauge what you accumulate.
Against everything you lose.

This life is not for everyone.
And in time it will not be for me.
But unlike poor Jack I'll take life back,
And finally be free.