I think King Solomon said it best
In Ecclesiastes Chapter One
No man finds solace or a reward
For all his labor under the sun
Sore muscles, reddening, stinging eyes
Aching back and dry or greasy skin
Working for eight hours a day sometimes
But most often more than nine or ten
Each paycheck quickly disseminates
In one direction or another
Never a backrub when I get home
No time to relax, so why bother?
Now I must lie down and try to sleep
After cleansing my mind of my sin
So I can drag my ass out in the
Morning, and do it over again
This is the first poem of "The Year Of The Poem", during which I wrote more than 200 separate pieces, almost all of them while living in Jacksonville, Arkansas, and working at either McDonald's or Sonic — both within walking distance of my the apartment I shared with Mark H.