Too many are my musts,
Too few my earnest desires.
You are a tyrant with your litany of decrees,
And ungrateful to my virtues and their expressions.
I have deserved better, O master mine!
You drive me like restless Sisyphus
Up your lofty intentions and pretensions,
Always pushing your iron heart-stone before me,
All gravity and malice.
Where are the thanks for my vigil?
The weight I have carried, I've never let fall.
We've come this far, you and I;
Now pay me the wages you owe!
George Chadderdon © 1995