The present agitation for the forty-hour week following the agitation for a forty-eight hour week and to be followed inevitably by an agitation for a thrity or twenty-four hour week, must remind even the sincerest advocates of the shorter working week of the incontrovertible old truth that it is quite possible for one to have too much of a good thing.
I worked for fifty hours a week, And someone said to me, "Don't be a serf! Throw off your chains, And show the world you're free!" So I cut down my working hours And found, upon the whole, The leisure time I had to spare Good for my body's carking care, And better for my soul. I worked for forty hours a week, And someone said to me, "Release your bonds, you shackled slave! Show all the world you're free!" So I reduced my working hours And found in leisured lull, The more I sought to play, the more Amusement had become a bore, And life was rather dull. I worked for twenty hours a week, And someone said to me "Awake, you mutt! Snap out of it, And show the world you're free!" So I cut out my working hours And found that joy had flit. Upon black melancholia's brink, I sometimes used to sit and think And sometimes merely sit. I worked for not one hour a week, And someone said to me, "You lazy coot! Arise and shine! You call this being free?" So I resolved I'd better far Rejoin the toiling mob. But when I rose and looked around, To my intense digust I found Someone had pinched my job.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003-06|