We’ve planned them a scout meet this morning;
We’ve looked up a new word or two;
We’ve started a plan for the garden;
We’ve met an old moth friend anew.
We’ve thought of a plot for a poem;
Of Cunningham’s Comet we’ve read;
We’ve started our shopping on paper,
So Christmas won’t catch us abed.
For these, there is no compensation–
They’re classed as a huge waste of time;
So far as our income’s affected,
They’ll never return us a dime:
But to us, this, our hour in the morning
Is the most worthwhile one of the day,
In spite of the fact that the world says
“For SLAVING ye shall receive pay”.
Perhaps we don’t see the thing clearly
As vainly we peer through the murk–
(Like shipmaster steering by instinct,
Whose compass has done a berserk)–
But why, WHY can’t we be paid for something
That doesn’t our very soul irk?
Our hour of production is over–
It’s time now to go back to work…
by Ray Romine Friday, November 1, 1940
