For if you hate your job!

I Hate My Job

Red nectar from a bottle that’s from France
France, where Englishmen will holiday;
Will holiday, enjoy the sun and dance,
Dance as wild abandoned men away;
A way through dreary days at a desk;
Desk of hate, back in London grotesque.
 
Grotesque that we must earn a pound to eat,
Eating, drinking, life comes at a cost,
A cost to dignity and balance sheet,
Balance sheet of life at work that’s lost:
Lost’s the time that we work and not live;
And not live; and not live; and not live.
 

Based on the same rules as the previous post, but done in a poetic form called Clonachlonn (which repeats the last word (or two) of each line as the beginning of the next line)

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