Worn Away by the Dirt and Sand

The work is hard

the work is rough

the work leaves you so dead and tired,

you're stuck and mired.

Hands are made crooked claws,

calluses made sore and torn,

throat filled with earth and sand,

how much more can you take?

Fake it, don't let the boss

shake it from you in the dust

ridden fields, black dirt caked

under fingernails like blood.

By the time you're home you're in the bar,

wasn't that far anyway.

The chuckles and brays of the other workers

with the smirk “sirs” and jokes let you

sink into the splintered wooden counter.