My father always works,
Complaining about the mines of clay,
Igniting his flesh in exchange,
For insufficient perks.
He’s always detonating rock,
Destroying the rock, his skin and his sanity,
Every moment he slaves, a loss of humanity,
Suicide, as long as he is on the clock.
He’s always fatigued,
When rested, we have fun,
When worn, his mind’s on the run,
This conundrum, a cause for intrigue.
He’s always protesting,
Challenging work ethics, safety and more,
But really, that’s all just a bore,
As he argues, my patience starts testing.