Wake up at 4.30 am every day except Sunday
When I wake up at 5.00 am, coz it's a day off work
Same routine day in, day out, like it or not
Coz there's no alternative, for a working man
Except to churn the wheel of the Daily Grind

Grinding away, Grinding away, Grinding away
Wake up at 4.30 am, and start on the pranayam
Then some light exercises, before it's time
For the morning prayers, which are a must
Then a bath followed by breakfast

Out of the house by 7.00 am is my target
To catch the public mini bus to my workplace
Arrive by 7.30 am, ready to start the work
Grinding away till 5.00 pm when it's time to leave

But I am grateful, grateful to the Almighty
I have work and earn a reasonable income
Meet the needs of my family, even if just the basics
Always be grateful that my wife tells me, and it's true

But it's not my ideal life, not at all
Some lucky people do have it all
A seven or eight-figure income, a happy family
And they work as and when they want
No Daily Grind For Them

For the rest of us, the Daily Grind
Grinding away, grinding away on the wheel of life
Till the Almighty says, Enough grinding done
Now join me in a new world where there is no Grind

You want to know the poet?
You want to know the man?
You can call him Hardison,
He's going for the grand throne,
In that hall of fame.
There's nothing that will halt him,
Till his name's carved in the sky.

If you had diarrhoea
got caught short, took a ****
in that drawer where you keep all your cables
and bits tangled vociferously
then later discovered you needed
a spare micro usb,
so you had no choice
but to roll up your sleeves,
that would be this Monday

There aren’t many jobs
where Sunday night
cold grips your guts
and has you palpitate

while midwives are called
and antiques are roadshowed
every inch of will is bent up
in figuring the impossible

if we all know how leading horses to water ends
then can we not give the stable hands a break?

As I watch my own digits shake,
stable hands seems like a joke
no one lets me in on

We try to sink into the crepuscular
as behind, another working week
picks us out of its teeth

we throw a couple of weaves
into the route to the sofa
for a headful of peace, maybe

though home has deaf ears too,
we love them
and through years of gaining favour
we’ll keep bruised hearts open there

beyond, you’ll see each aortal latch fixed,
each ventricular bolt slid
and each arterial snib
locked

if sweat and tears are the currency
you’d better ****** earn it

Shush brain,
let the regular, looped refrains drop,
seek a safe, blank space,
a place for quietude
and maize based snacks:
for the love of Pete
relax