The Workaholic
He retired from his job on his sixty fifth birthday
But he did not enjoy the work free life
And he died just nine months into his retirement
To be mourned by his family and his wife.
It has been said he was a workaholic
And that he was one who worked as hard as two
And he felt bored without a job to go to
And he pined away as many like him do.
His problem was he did not have a hobby
And a working life the life he loved and knew
A good man for his wife and family and his Country
But good men just like bad men must die too.
For forty seven years he worked for the same employers
And to the end to his bosses was true
His parting gift from them a wrist watch and box of chocolates
And a well done and a shake hands and thank you.
He must have been one who truly liked his bosses
To have worked for them for forty seven years
His last day on the job it was his saddest
And as he left he fought to choke the tears.
His problem was that he did not have a hobby
And he only lived for each working day
And when he left the workforce in his sixties
He fell into ill health and pined away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
Kiwi Dave
For forty five years I've been working and I'm just an unfettered slave
And I have gray hairs to show for it I am quoting Kiwi Dave
Five years to go to retirement I was sixty last birthday
And ever since I've started working it's been uphill all the way.
My ex wife said that I was a drinker that I was too fond of the booze
That was her excuse for leaving she said I was born to lose
But I take it in moderation after work three or four beers
And I've been a slave for her and for my children for close to if not twenty years.
Fifteen years ago she left me and she went to live with younger bloke
She got more than half my assets for years to her haven't spoke
She turned my son and daughter against me and my six grandchildren I don't see
And I will spend my usual Christmas on my own watching T.V.
Kiwi Dave is a good person though just a little soured by life
And things for him would have been better had he had a faithful wife
'A woman she can make or break you' with that who could disagree
Dave could see the truth in those words for who would know better than he? .
For forty five years he's been working the hard worker Kiwi
Dave
And for his ex wife and his children for years he has been a slave
He looks older far than sixty the hard life has made him gray
Five more years left till retirement it's been uphill all the way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Is That All There Is?
'Is this all there is too life? '
I over heard my husband say.
I worked and slaved my life away,
And worked for little pay.
Now I am retired, and working harder then, I ever did before.
Is this all there is?
I thought there would be so much more!
I am lucky if I'll live till I'm old,
All my friends I knew did not!
Is that what we had all worked our lives for,
And what is it we have got?
Cars' not paid for, the morgage still due,
Had to take a loan on the house,
For those braces for son Drew.
I am walking a bit much slower,
My legs and feet have pain.
How much longer do I have too work,
I was'nt looking at doing this again!
Retirement is not as our Fathers' knew,
When they retired, and sailed the oceans blue!
Mom and Dad got a ticket and traveled,
They enjoyed those Golden Years,
Only enjoyed and known by few!
Is this all there is?
Because I wanted to enjoy my end years with you,
I guess I'll make the best of what we've got,
You have me, and I'm blessed to have you!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Our Brother John
He left Ireland in nineteen fifty two
Our brother John the man I barely knew
He was the eldest of the family
And the Homeland he was never more to see.
In life our brother John he journeyed far
He lived through peace time and he lived through war
In Korea with the Air Force of the U.S.A.
Far distant from the fields of Claraghatlea.
One of my sisters Mary wrote to me
She said our brother died with dignity
In death as in his life he showed his bravery
And at least now of his sufferings he's free.
Our brother John left two sons and a wife
And he worked hard all of his working life
Only in his sixties he seemed young to die
He was my hero when I was a boy.
From Millstreet thousands of sea miles away
Our brother John in a distant graveyard lay
And though I'd not seen him for more than thirty years
The news of his passing reduced me to tears.
He was the quiet man never spoke too loud
And of our brother John we felt so proud
In his death from his sufferings he found his release
And may he rest forevermore in peace.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Arthritic Johnny
He's worked for bosses all of his working life poor Johnny
And now he walks with the aid of walking cane
His fingers bent and knobby from arthritis
And he feels stiff all over from work strain.
From his drainer job he took early retirement
Four years ago when he was sixty one
He could not carry on due to arthritis
Magnified by the hard labouring he had done.
Those who grew wealthy out of his exertions
Ignore him now when they meet on the street
He's made life better for their sons and daughters
Yet he's a stranger to them when they meet.
Perhaps they feel that they don't owe him any
That's for services rendered to them he's been paid
But of course they won't admit to the vast fortunes
Out of him and others like him they have made.
To afford him any sort of recognition
Would be admitting to him that they owe
So every time they see arthritic Johnny
He's one of those that they don't pretend to know.
All his working years he's laboured for his bosses
And he has work stiffnes to show for his gain
And his hands and legs are paining from arthritis
And he walks around with the aid of walking cane
poem by Francis Duggan
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Working Class Man
The‘working class'man comes home after a hard working day,
Another shift over, a step closer to a much needed wage or pittance of pay.
Trying his best to maintain his and family's basic needs,
Working through his life's prime.
Also trying to plan future seeds,
Until'his retirement time.
Forty years or more of graft and sweat,
At the end of it, What does he get?
Pat's on the back, handshake or maybe a golden watch that is already set!
To remind himself of the good and bad times he may have had,
A reminder if they were funny or sad.
A ticking memory of friends he made or met,
A‘time watch'to watch the pass of time that he's got left.
poem by Guy Lipmore
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There Is More To Life Than Hard Work
I can't say my life's been a great life that I've been there and I've done that
But I worked in pipe laying crew for Michael Kelleher in Buninyong near Ballarat
And I worked in the late eighties for a firm called C.D.L.
Jack hammering in the heat of Summer when the days were hot as hell.
101 Collins Street Melbourne I remember that address
Not that I enjoyed the work there I remember none the less
Up each morning at five thirty then to work on tram I'd go
And left that building site each evening covered in dust head to toe.
Another four years as tree clearer up by powerlines clearing trees
Operating a cherry picker for such you don't need degrees
For a Travel tower company a growing concern managed by a greedy lot
They still owe me two weeks wages something I have not forgot.
Up working mornings at five thirty between work and travel a twelve hour day
Whilst my so called bosses made their millions I took home bare living pay
Now I take it nice and easy and I'm well off now as I was then
If your bosses make their millions for you there can't be a win
I worked as tree feller in Ireland far away and long ago
In the high woods by the mountains where the peaks wear hats of snow
Most Winter days were wet and chilly up to April not much sunshine
Only sound the cold wind soughing in the larch and spruce and pine.
'Hard work never did anybody harm' to coin that phrase it took a fool
Hard work your life's bound to shorten you can overwork a mule
Hard working Joe is dead at fifty, Pete on welfare living on
Pete five years older and quite healthy he's still here and Joe is gone.
Maybe I've drudged for a few years but I'm not proud of that at all
And if my life has got one highlight such as now I can't recall
And if one tell me how hard he work I tell him my watch is slow
And I'm late for an appointment 'see you later got to go'.
'Ned the basher' at his local like to sing his praises loud
And boast of the hard work he's done to an uninterested crowd,
He's proud to show his work callouses he must have an empty life
But he never once did mention how he often beats his wife
There is more to life than hard work, work to live but not to die
And if you labour hard poor fellow life you never can enjoy
If your boss is making millions and you take home bare living pay
Maybe you should have a re-think and perhaps give the job away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Work To Do!
i came from a generation
that worked.... was born to
work, daylight to dawn,
for everything we had.
we grew our own food, we
cut firewood, we worked
with our hands.
we were taught to work...
we built houses, bridges,
paved roads... worked on
farms, worked in sawmills,
worked in factories...
whatever it took for food
and shelter...
and if a neighbor got hurt,
or sick, and couldnt work...
we helped him and his family
till he could.
those of us left who can work
are still working, a lot of us are
out of work, and cant find work!
and so the world has changed...
it seems like a lot of people
spend more time avoiding work
than working... a lot of people
look for the easy way out...are
dependent on society...
still a lot of good and willing people
just need help.
they call this progress...based
on technology, and looking out for
number one. seperated, almost islands...
greed has taken the place of the bent back!
so when it all falls apart, and that will
be soon, what happens? who knows how
to survive? who has the backbone?
things to think about, and yes...
work to do!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet: Boss’ Day (Oct.16)
Some bosses do not know what fairness is!
Some bosses want to be corrupt in life;
Some bosses work endlessly without bliss;
Some bosses cut their employees like knife!
Some bosses do not want to be honest;
Some bosses talk but do opposite things;
Some bosses do not want workers to rest;
Some bosses live a lazy life like kings!
Good bosses are good administrators;
Good bosses think of employees’ welfare;
Good bosses are not liars / orators;
Good bosses serve their employees and share.
What sort of boss do you prefer to be?
A boss must live a life exemplary!
Dedicated to all bosses world-o'er
Copyright by Dr John Celes 9-22-2007
poem by John Celes
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You Ask Me About It
You ask me about it I have wondered why
So many never know of material success though hard they do try
They work hard and grow old and fade out and die
Is the theory of hard work based on success something based on a lie.
The prime years of life quickly do tick away
They work hard to raise their children then grow old and gray
The woman on average by a few years does outlive her man
Three score and ten years the average human life span.
So many work hard just for survival pay
And the gap between the haves and have nots gets wider every day
And so many hungry for each millionaire
It is a rat race in the big World out there.
You ask me why some people struggle through life
The poor working man and his poor working wife
On their meagre incomes their family must survive
On the sweat of the workers the bosses do thrive.
poem by Francis Duggan
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There Must Be An Easier Way
To earn one's living there must be an easier way
Than working in a menial job for menial pay
You age so fast your hair prematurely gray
And you must work hard till your retirement day.
When you ask the boss for a raise his answer no
For a raise in pay you must have more to show
The unemployed are many and the jobs are few
And there's plenty more to do the job you do.
At 5.30 a m each work day from bed I rise
Before daylight has lit the morning skies
Then long drive to work in smoky old work van
Such is the lot of the common working man.
The chap next door seems better off than I
He does not work yet life he does enjoy
Whilst I'm at work he rest at home in bed
And he doesn't look deprived or underfed
With six year old son and a non working wife
He live an easy and a stress free life
And I've heard it said that he's never worked a day
But good luck to him is all that I can say.
I do not receive or seek sympathy
For there are many far worse off than me
But living life would be a lot more fun
If I did not have to rise before the sun
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Working Man Is A Decent Man
The working man never daydreams of wearing the boss's shoes
But in the pub with his good mates he does enjoy his booze
And he enjoys their every chat of life and of football
Since politics and World affairs doesn't interest him at all.
Devoted to his family and devoted to his wife
The working man is a decent man he leads a moral life
To watch their favourite football team in action he often takes his family
So easy going and down to earth and of any cares he's free.
You never do hear him complain of how times are quite tough
That his wife and family are happy and well for him is good enough
His ancestors like him of working stock they never craved renown
They are amongst the great unsung who helped to build the town.
He gets up in the gray of dawn for work each working day
Let's hear it for the working man a rousing hip hooray
Two of his children are in primary school his youngest for school too young
In his early thirties in the prime of life one of the town's unsung.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Loved Stranger
I remembered I'd promised my Aunt Adele before she died
that I'd get in touch with her family in Oz
just to put matters to rest, since they'd not spoken for years
since she upped and went off with this Pom
and left the family without its clever high-earner...
I wasn't looking forward to it with all that bad blood -
'Enough for a vampire's transfusion' said my uncle, the culprit -
but a promise is a promise. I had Auntie's old phone book;
worked out the time here that would be Sunday afternoon in Oz.
The voice was open, strong, friendly - I guessed I'd hit
that great moment when they'd had the barbie,
the few beers after the few beers,
the guests had just gone off
and the washing-up could wait until after a beer...
He was really glad I'd phoned -
he'd been away from the family most of his life, one reason and another -
so we didn't have much to try to piece together
which was probably a good thing, could've been
a pretty forced, stilted conversation -
so we got chatting about one thing and another,
our different lifestyles, our families -
and you know how it is, strangers on a train and all that,
got quite carried away, about how much we enjoyed life,
loved our wives and families, wouldn't change a thing,
what life had taught us - almost anything, everything really
like we were old friends who hadn't met up for years..
It was quite late on in the conversation, when we were working out
if we couldn't fix up a family visit, and he'd said,
no, they'd never lived in Adelaide (after which city
Aunt was proudly named - 'greatest city on earth' they said,
not having travelled further than Sydney -)
when I realised I'd phoned the wrong number; but
felt good and he too I guess.
So I had to choose the moment
to laugh and say hey this is an expensive call,
talk to the wife and call you back, Jacko...
I've never known my family so bloody merry
as when the story got around.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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No plan to live
I have no plan to live good life
It may be for others like an edge of knife
I am comfortable with it and happy
Everything is going on very easy
Father has left good fortune
Nothing more is required to be done
Rest of the days may also be gone
Life is to be at ease and carefully I have chosen
So there may be many more lucky people like me
Careless, unconcerned an totally free
I shall take nothing into consideration
Enjoy the empire without any question
Father had worked hard to build
There was tremendous growth and enough of yield
I saw him working late nights
I have inherited fortune by right
I shall not work that hard as he did
I have no clue now how to lead
I am afraid to swim in rough sea
Let me think over it and finally see
He had advised me not to spend recklessly
Not a coin should be used excessively
I have kept that advice in mind
I shall seek nothing more to find
He took nothing along with him
Everything is left behind for family team
We all were given full comfort and fine stay
Now he has left us and gone away
I have learnt nothing to expand business
Now I f eel uneasiness on the face
Worry lines sometimes rush and bother
I shall have to depend now on others
It is good to have enough of wealth
To have an expertise enhances the health
Health and wealth combine gives confidence
Life is providing one more opportunity or chance
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Shorter Week
I worked for fifty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Don't be a serf! Throw off your chains,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut down my working hours
And found, upon the whole,
The leisure time I had to spare
Good for my body's carking care,
And better for my soul.
I worked for forty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Release your bonds, you shackled slave!
Show all the world you're free!'
So I reduced my working hours
And found in leisured lull,
The more I sought to play, the more
Amusement had become a bore,
And life was rather dull.
I worked for twenty hours a week,
And someone said to me
'Awake, you mutt! Snap out of it,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut out my working hours
And found that joy had flit.
Upon black melancholia's brink,
I sometimes used to sit and think
And sometimes merely sit.
I worked for not one hour a week,
And someone said to me,
'You lazy coot! Arise and shine!
You call this being free?'
So I resolved I'd better far
Rejoin the toiling mob.
But when I rose and looked around,
To my intense digust I found
Someone had pinched my job.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Problems
Too many problems, oh why am I here?
I need to be me, cause youre all to clear
And I can see theres something wrong with you
Oh, what do you expect me to do?
At least I gotta know what I wanna be
Dont come to me if you need pity
Are you lonely, you got no-one
You got your body in suspension
Thats a problem, problem, problem
The problem is you
Eat your heart out on a plastic tray
You dont do what you want and you fade away
You work for me, youre working nine-to-five
Its too much fun of being alive
Im using my feet for my human machine
You work for me, living for the screen
Are you lonely, all needs catered
You got your brains dehydrated
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Oh what what you gonna do, problem, problem
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Well, what you gonna do with your problem
The problem is you, problem
I aint death trip, but I aint automatic
You work for me, just stay ecstatic
Dont you give me any orders
To people like me, there is no order
Bet you thought you had it all worked out
Bet you thought you knew what I was about
Bet you thought youd solved all your problems
But you are the problem
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Oh, what you gonna do with your problem?
Ill leave it up to you, oh problem
The problem is you, you got a problem
Oh what you gonna do?
They know a doctor, gonna take you away
Thay take you away and they throw away the key
They dont want you and they dont want me
You got a problem the problem is you
Problem, well, what you gonna do?
Problem, have you got a problem?
Problem, well you got a problem
Problem (x17)
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She was in the profession
She stopped her work at her lawn when she saw me
and leaned over the fence and we talked for over two hours
with my elbow on her posts and my feet resting
against the palings.
She had worked forty years in the same profession
and had seen generations through the doors. She
had enjoyed her work and people still call her to
tell her about themselves; they express their gratitude
and how much of a difference she had made.
She walked down the fence, waved her arms
and returned to the corner where I stood.
But what was work for?
she asked.
Forty years doing what was good for others
but nothing that was good for myself.
What was work for? she sighed.
What were forty years for? It destroyed me.
(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))
poem by Raj Arumugam
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We Are Near Life's Finish Line
I feel happy for you mister on your huge superannuation payout
You've earned it so you can relax that's what life should be about
You and your wife can dine out better now and drink more expensive wine
Yet you and I only one thing in common share we are near life's finish line.
You tell me you worked as an engineer for the local council and you earned good take home pay
But you had to provide for and raise five children that's life or so they say
Still others on less than half of your wages raise their big family
And many must live till the day they die in abject poverty.
I do wish you well mister may your retirement years be great
Though you I won't be out golfing with and I'll never be your mate
You are just a well dressed fellow with your wife walking in the park
Though your dog doesn't seem to like me and at me he always bark.
Our lifestyles seem very different but that can be said of most
And I won't be there on your birthday for your happy birthday toast
But we share one thing in common with the vegetarian kine
The Reaper for us is waiting as we are near life's finish line.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My Retirement Years' (For everyone over 62!)
Has anyone else noticed
the new working standards and means?
for those of retirement years, is this what it seems?
That if your able bodied to still work
your employer makes your job harder and act like jerks?
They take you aside and tell you your doing bad
this makes for your day, to be unproductive, quite empty and sad!
You've given them, some of the best years of your life!
So you could have two and a half children, a home and a wife.
But now the environment, your working in cause
walking through your humble abode
with your hands, in outstretching of claws!
I'm over the hill they say, not wanted anymore!
they'd like to have me get so upset
That I would walk out their door!
I thought at the end, retierment, would be my choice to make?
and not that done by some hired henchman
doing companies, pain in the butt heart breaks!
I didn't give all my best years
so I would be treated like crap!
I'll stand my ground, if I have to take it to the TOP!
And then they'll all see, just where
this so called old bucks going to stop!
No company is so big, that they can treat me like this!
I am an American who fought, so this company could even exist!
If they have a profit to make, don't take it out of me!
I fought for this country, so all people could have choices and be FREE!
Don't mess with me, I'm an American retirement age man!
And when I'm darn good and ready!
I'LL CHOSE, when I blow this pop stand!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Wedding Band
Joey Wedding Band
JoAnn was the birth name of my wife
To me Joey was her name for a lot of our married life
One of the best things anyone could ask for in life
Is to have a good and loving wife
When it comes time for me to pass no matter day or night
I hope and pray that my wife will be my guiding light
I did not complement my wife as much as I could of
But with all my heart I gave her my love
My wife is in heaven watching over our family
Hoping we could be the best we could be
I am now living by myself and on my own
I have my dogs and my family but I feel alone
I never thought I knew how bad pain could ever be
Until my wife died and left me
At times my wife lets me know she is near
She turns off the picture frame to let me know she is here
On a chain around my neck I wear my wife’s wedding band
I also still wear mine on the finger of my left hand
To anyone who reads this poem do not let the time with your family go
Everything is gone before you know
poem by Michael Gelb
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My Mother
Every one gives praise about their mothers
But none can give as much praise as me.
She brought me from a country
Where most lived in poverty.
She worked hard and saved her money
So that I may have a better life
She is an excellent mother
And to my father a good wife.
She has been there every step of my life
She turned bad things into right.
She has given me the strength to pursue my dream
For in me, there is something that she has seen.
She taught me how to love and respect
All that GOD has given
and to make life worth living.
Through her pregnancy and through my birth
She has given all her worth.
Then through my childhood years
To my teenage years, she was with me
To shed her tears.
when I was feeling down and out
And I wanted to scream and shout
She was there to wipe my tears
And put to rest, all my fears.
Even now that I am grown
all her love is still shown.
No one can love you more than a mother
And in my life there is no other.
So to my mother this is for you
You are my life, my love, my dream come true
And I am so thankful to you.
poem by Louis Rams
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