Fools and Horses Work

Alarm goes off, your eyes prize open, you drag yourself from bed,
you sigh and trudge and start to dread the working day ahead.
The early starts now wearing thin, the gruelling daily slog,
as every day when you clock in to your tireless, thankless job.
Just a number, a voice, a name on a screen,
a well oiled cog of a giant machine.
Daily delays, long waits for the train, in your battle to make ends meat,
as you stand in that famous great British rain, train arrives but you can't find a seat.
So you stand and you sway, as the train chugs away,
the same grey, dreary faces seen day after day.
Same place, same train, same time, same suit,
same cheap aftershave, same tie, same commute.
The force fed, 'good mornings' or 'enjoy your weekend'.
The same Monday meetings you're forced to attend.
The increased sales targets, the dreaded cold calls,
the manky old carpets and plain office walls.
Cheap office tea, the same meal deal at one,
fear of bankruptcy if their costs overrun.
Part of the system, a slave to the trade,
that pay rise so distant, overworked and underpaid.
The brownosers winning, the chumps left on the heap,
the CEO grinning at the staff he’s hired cheap.
Fatigue now always with you, you once felt so alive,
as now deep down you beg them for Mr P45.
8 hours a day, 5 days a week, they all drive you berserk,
Is it true that only fools and horses work?