Heaven bless the working man,
Or woman, as the case may
be,
For labors that have
built a nation,
Made it strong,
Kept it free.
Day by day endures the
trek,
Spaghettied byways
Overflowing.
Ceaseless days of
repetition,
Watching with frustration
growing.
Even while complaints may
linger
As the endless hours
drone,
Though his ire may peak
aplenty,
He will never take it
home.
Home to where his world
makes sense,
A different kind of
recompense,
Where labors wear a
sweeter flavor
Sheltered by a picket
fence.
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