It's very late, and I must go to bed
But not before I hammer out this work
In a sickly Communist way, half-dead
Thanks to several beers, my mind turned to murk
Karl Marx would sympathise, Engels would smirk
And you might empathise, but I still must
Somehow, before summer comes, find some quirk
Of thought that strikes me as ever so just
The demands of day to day living thrust
Expectations upon us that we dread
But somewhere beneath, our ambitions lurk
And it's those we should save before they rust
And corrode us from within. Time we fed
On our own thoughts, and on our own feet walk
Monday 30 April
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