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"The Cycle"
copyright 2003 by  Bud Lipsmeyer

A bottle had broke,
There's glass on the floor,
No one had swept it away.
Twisted in sheets,
And climbing from bed,
Wake up to another day.

The mornings like this,
Are always the same,
Hung over since quarter till two;
Lean over the sink,
And stare in the mirror,
A couple of Advil should do.

No soap's in the tray,
But a toothbrush is there,
The shower starts steaming the mirror;
Grip a straight razor,
And wave at the fog,
Today things don't look very clear.

A large potted plant,
On a cold windy day,
Bare limbs are riding the breeze;
Crossing the street,
The traffic light sways,
Jay-walking while eating some cheese.

The welding rod melts,
As the fire burns blue,
Fumes are clouding the air;
The time-clock will tick,
For a lone Union man,
Eight hours just doesn't seem fair.

It's straight to the pub,
For the best ale on tap,
The bar-keep was always a friend;
Drink late in the night,
And stagger back home,
Then tomorrow you do it again.