To hear someone say;

I worked my fingers to the bone

So someone sharper could take my home,

Raises few eyebrows these days

Work isn’t the toad

Work is the poor man’s load

Piled up all his life ahead

Never relenting until he’s finally dead

You could of course ignore it;

No mortgage, no gadgets that comfort

No requirement to pay-as-you-earn it;

A kind of existence

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