Judge not the cover.
I'm just a commuter nine through to six,
counting out time, picking up sticks,
numbering and crunching and hunching my way
through the bowels of another inglorious day.
And my desk is a prison that binds me in chains,
my office (hard won), not that much of a gain ;
Ten paces one way, then ten paces the other,
just a garish lit cage hardly worth all the bother.
But my suit is strong armour, my pen is a sword,
that I wield in my fight with the ungodly horde,
and I'm cool under fire, not a file out of place,
A hero inside; yet outside there's no trace.
And my thoughts are of flowers that sup the sweet rain
from the clouds passing by that may not pass again ;
Of the mountains and valleys more ancient than time,
where the air has a bouquet far richer than wine.
Where my forefathers roamed, in free will and free choice,
sang out to the heavens in heavenly voice ;
And my days are a wonder as I dream all these things,
and my step is the step of the noblest of kings.
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