Work Hard for No Pay
The night is late, just as before.
We want to go home, hit the sack,
but for sleep there is time no more.
We work on something we adore,
on white paper, our ink of black.
The night has passed, just as before.
Seldom is it ever a chore,
and intensity we don't lack,
but we're done, our work needs time no more.
Our flats, knives, and writer's lore,
photos, hairline and sticky wax.
The words are set, just as before.
Sure, we complain and we sound sore,
and sometimes it feels like we'll crack.
Please, sleep! No more Cynic, no more!
Next week, again, work until four
but we do get something back:
Our names on the sheets. As before,
for us, next week there will be more.
Author's Note: This poem was written for a college class about my work on the school newspaper, The Vermont Cynic. Work on the Cynic was purely voluntary and carried no scholastic award (ie, no class, no credit).
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Last Modified: 17 Jul 1997
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