Walking around in the
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on,
Blurred playground
Beyond black-stockinged nurses -Not a bad place to be.
Yet it doesn't suit me.
Being one of the
You meet of an afternoon:
Palsied old step-takers,
Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters,
Waxed-fleshed
Still vague from accidents,
And characters in long
Deep in the litter-baskets -All dodging the toad
By being stupid or weak.
Think of being them!
Hearing the hours chime,
Watching the bread delivered,
The sun by clouds covered,
The children going home;
Think of being them,
Turning over their
By some bed of lobelias,
Nowhere to go but indoors,
Nor friends but empty chairs -No, give me my in-tray,
My loaf-haired secretary,
My shall-I-keep-the-call-in-Sir:
What else can I answer,
When the lights come on at
At the end of another year?
Give me your arm, old toad;
Help me down Cemetery Road.
