Tireless Slave
By Alvin Benatovich - August 27, 1970
You die a little,
Each morning's light
Doing only,
What is solely right.
Your industrious toil,
You tireless slave,
Covers past joy,
With tidal wave.
Your hopeless view,
You rush to paint,
As personal denial,
Made every Saint.
But if the promise,
Is far from true,
A false conclusion,
Your only clue.
So empty your glass,
To clear your head
And think to depth,
Your mind be fed.
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