Category: Work

Posterity loves him, and places its seal
Of approval on him who invented the wheel;
But it all leaves me luke-warm when I come home bushed,
For one of his lawn-mowers waits to be pushed.

by Ray Romine Thursday, May 15, 1952

Just one of the things I had that went
With youth was a sort of natural bent
Toward work- -but I ‘m glad it’s lost, no joke ,
For with or without the bent, I’m broke!

by Ray Romine Thursday, December 21, 1950

I need a secretary,
I have always boasted.
Not to write my letters,
But to get the darn things posted.

by Ray Romine Friday, March 31, 1950

We ‘re told that hard work cannot kill,
But when of work I’ve had my fill,
I think those tasks which I forget
Have done me little harm as yet!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 30, 1951

Just when I should work like a beaver,
I have to go and get spring fever.
But since it hasn’t stopped my golfing,
A cure, I’m sure, is in the olfing.

by Ray Romine Saturday, January 31, 1953

The week has all but gone, and I
Have not been worthy of my salt;
I’ve done no work, but if they pay
Mailmen who rest, that’s not my fault

by Ray Romine Friday, November 5, 1943

Somewhere, fiercely, some man tries–
One more airplane in the skies.

An architect, ignoring pomp,
Sweats:–New homes in what was swamp.

A Poet tries to make words come–
One more tune for man to hum.

A doctor battles jungle pest–
A multitude of patients rest.

Whatever may seem wasted
Upon the long, hard grade,
Success is never tasted.
But there is effort made.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 10, 1947

“He never finished anything,”
When Life and I have parted ,
I much prefer to have them say
To “He could not get started.”

by Ray Romine Monday, May 19, 1952

A shirker is a worker-irker.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 15, 1946

I hear the Bob-white’s bell-clear call
That bounces off the tansy- top;
A Mourning-dove’s half-muted drawl
Invites me where the rapids drop.

A Vesper Sparrow, singing, asks
“Why do you, man, forever work?
We birds, too, have our daily tasks,
But find some time to play and shirk.”

But, obligations I must meet;
Bread is my boss, and I’m her tool.
Yet–who must work like this to eat
Is less than slave–he is a fool.

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 19, 1945