How long will he labour?
How long will he stand await at the harbour?
Aged but still toiling,
Weary components decry oiling,
He rises early to a routine striving,
He retires home, feet dragging.
His perpetual toil hasn't yielded much,
Life has left him in the lurch,
From his prime to his senior,
He scrimps and saves,
All that come are not anything he craves,
Opulence hasn't beamed its light his way,
Neither has fortune come to stay.
He is near the end of his race,
He is at the wits' end of his grace.
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