The waitress hung her apron,
Un-wound her long dark hair
Removed the pen from her pocket
And sat down on a chair
The blisters on her feet hurt,
Her calves ached with strain,
Yet tomorrow she knew,
She’d have do it all again
Especially these days, a job
Is a rare thing to have
I would follow my dreams
But there is money to be had
Rent to pay, bills are due
These days’ times are tough
You take what you get
And say ‘thank you very much’
I can’t protest today
Can’t burn the bra I wear
I picked up an extra shift,
I frankly just don’t care
The world outside is faint
I don’t give one red cent
what happens overseas
I have to pay my rent
I don’t preach free love,
Or wear flowers in my hair
When people ask I shrug,
It’s just not my affair
They say things were better
Long before I came
Deskbound in Pyrmont
Looking at us with distain
The waitress took up her bag,
Checked she had her keys
Bought a bottle of wine
And went home to her puppy
The Independent Philosopher 