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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=357574" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Get Work</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">On one fine but fatal morning in the early Eocene,<br>Lo, a brawny Bloke set out to dig a hole:<br>First of men to put a puncture in the tertiary green<br>Was this early, neolithic, human mole.<br>Gladsomely the toiler hefted his ungainly wooden spade,<br>As he scarified the bosom of old earth;<br>And our Progress forthwith started when his first spade-thrust was made,<br>While the cult of Work, or Graft, was given birth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh, he flung the clods about him with a gay and prideful jerk,<br>Did this bright and early anthropoidal Bloke.<br>With the crowd that gathered, goggle-eyed, to watch him at his work<br>He would crack a pleasant, prehistoric joke.<br>And they gazed at him in wonder; for the custom of the mob,<br>When not occupied in inter-tribal strife,<br>Hitherto had been to eat, and sleep, and hunt, and cheat, and rob <br>Quite a simple and uncomplicated life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Wherefore being new and novel, he was treated with respect,<br>This inventor of the job of shifting sand:<br>And with fresh-killed meat and fruit and furs his cave the tribesmen decked.<br>While his praises sounded high on ev'ry hand.<br>And the chieftain bade his artists in crude pictures to inscribe<br>On the shin-bone of a Dinosauromyth:<br>'Lo, the gods have sent a thing called Graft to bless this happy tribe,<br> And a scheme of Public Works will start forthwith.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Ev'ry day, from early dawn till dark, the delver labored on<br>Till the tribesmen grew accustomed to the sight;<br>And the hunters, on their way to slay the mud-fat mastodon,<br>Would delay to say he wasn't doing right.<br>And the loafers from the Lower Caves, who lived by stealing meat,<br>All the day around the contract used to lurk;<br>And, when'er he paused to wipe his brow or took time off to eat,<br>They would yell at him in chorus: 'Aw, git work!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Fat and lazy fur-skin-traders - wealthy men of such a size<br>That it took five hides to make them each a vest -<br>On their way to cheat their neighbors, paused awhile to criticise;<br>Calling, 'Loafer!' ev'ry time he stopped to rest.<br>They no longer stocked his larder with the trophies of the chase,<br>Or the neolithic substitute for beer:<br>For the chief said: 'He's a worker; we must keep him in his place!'<br>And the bloated fur-skin-traders cried, 'Hear, hear!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And he soon became the scapegoat and the butt of all the tribe,<br>And he dwelt within the smallest, meanest cave,<br>While the rich and idle troglodytes were readiest to gibe,<br>Till they worried him into an early grave.<br>Then the minstrel (And I wot he was a wise prophetic bard,<br>And an anthropoid philosopher of note),<br>Took another mammoth shin-bone and scatched it with his shard<br>In his picture-script; and this is what he wrote:-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Here lies the simple silly coot who first discovered Toil.<br>Him who started progress onward on her way;<br>Though he didn't get much fun from it, he moved some tons of soil;<br>But, 'tis said, he never fairly eanred his pay.<br>Lo, this thing called Work is blessed, for it shifts a lot of sand!<br>And this progress eases him who lives by tricks.<br>But the Bloke who lumps the Bundle, down through ev'ry age and land,<br>Shall be paid for harder work with harder kicks.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Now that Paleolithic prophet on some sandstone stratum lies, With his shin-bones of the Dinosauromyth,<br>But the Bloke who shoves the shovel still his thankless calling plies,<br>And his name is Michael Burke or Peter Smith.<br>In the highway doth he labor, in the searching public gaze,<br>And he dare not pause, his aching back to rest,<br>Lest he cause a howl of protest from the trader of these days<br>With the large gold chain across his convex chest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Lest he cause a howl of protest from 'Pro Bono Publico.'<br>And lest 'Constant Reader' cry his shame aloud,<br>He must keep his shovel moving - and he moves it all too slow<br>For the critics in the great White-handed crowd.<br>Till they get a patent navvy with a dynamo for head,<br>Or a petrol-tank for stomach, take my word,<br>He'll be ever up against it who shifts sand to earn his bread,<br>And the howling of the traders will be heard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Clarence+Michael+James+Stanislaus+Dennis">Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=357574" data-title="Get Work de Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis" data-description="On one fine but fatal morning in the early Eocene,
Lo, a brawny Bloke set out to dig a hole:
First of men to put a puncture in the tertiary green
Was this early, neolithic, human mole.
Gladsomely the toiler hefted his ungainly wooden spade,
As he ..."></div>
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