This is for my grandson, who is sure that chores were invented just to torture him.
We do them,
And then we do them again–
Then I swear
We do them twenty times ten.
Hercules ain’t got nothing on me
Or that gal who picked rice from sand
By an emerald sea
It’s as if it all were planned
At the dawn of time
When the world began
It is occupation
For the hands
Lest we should fall into sinful ways
From having nothing with which to fill our days.
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