The banal duty ends today at last,
And takes away the dreadful, bitter work,
For every hole, a copper snatched up fast,
And lash for every ledgered, slothful lurk.

Our lives have value less than rocks we dig,
While breads have worth beyond the lash on back.
The bridge of light we walk is thin as twig,
Belongings fit a tiny, jute-knit sack.

The sun we saw was less than murk we kissed,
And yet we're stained as if we've burned to crisp.
The moon we sought was less than silver wished,
And yet we cry when caught in crescent wisp.

The loathsome labor only ends at death;
Today's a joyous day for final breath.