It's ourselves against our toils and bother,
Do not fret though, when I have the early better,
You shall know me but we mayn't gather.
This is existing, not cruelty,
For if it's you that comes earlier in the probability,
You mayn't also bat an eye at my presence,
In the midst of opulent ones shrouding my absence.
We're in the clueless, bleak and paltry life,
The limits of our satisfaction vast with no vie,
Whilst being likened to a shirt without a tie.
This is volatile, not perpetual,
You aren't reneging as it isn't eternal,
"The toils would end someday", so your priest said,
Then, why don't you laze and wait on God's tray laid?
You are of faith but still hump,
The priest beckons you to grease your cracked palm,
He aided, but his greed awaits more than its balm.
You rummaged your alms amid the little profit,
Gave all to the church and seemed befit,
It isn't a sin to love your God but,
I rather labour and the yield, wholly in requital I put.