On Labor Day the working Joe

Can toil and industry forego

And lounge about the bungalow

An idler by decree

 

For me, a slacker head to toe

It’s been a yearly source of woe

That shirking work is only so

For he a worker be

 

I find employment wearying,

Attached to Boss Man’s apron string

Nor would I venture anything

On pure initiative

 

In winter, summer, fall and spring

Of my own indolence I’m king

Persistently malingering

The bum definitive

 

To lift does not appeal to me

I wouldn’t tote for any fee

Indeed, to stand would disagree

Lest I should break a sweat

 

To ride a desk would seem to be

An exercise in constancy

Two things I hope to never see

Not even on a bet

 

Fact is, no useful chore do I

Have any mind to even try

The public weal to fortify

My social debt to pay

 

And so when each September’s nigh

I loaf upon my couch and sigh

And wish I had a job to shy

By right of Labor Day