We can, if, at election time, we all know what to do.
The drunkard holds his job, the drones stay in the hive,
And all is as rotten as ever, but the hours are nine to five!
The fool sits in high office; the bully continues to drive,
The grafter gets his “rake off”, but—the hours are nine to five.
What to us of the hulks, if the summer do arrive,
With all its promise of outings?—the hours are nine to five.
What tho’ the patient plod, the energetic strive,
Your task is never done, the hours are nine to five.
The loafer will persist to loaf, no benefit derive,