On Work Poem by W H Benjamin

I wonder who planned the day this way.
The working hard, the working away,
The Poor, sweet day
When better I get to know it's face
I will be old, so old and grey

To sit upright
Bone straight, uptight
For eight hours,
Four Hundred and
Eighty minutes, a day, or more
For five days a week
For around two score

Who made it so,
That we can barely afford
To get this, Our daily bread.

I often wonder. Who planned the day!
Who hardly realised
That Summer has materialised
The Flowers blooming
In the month of May
The children playing in the Park
All laughing hard

While we argue
Until it's dark
The relevance of these stark figures
These year end figures
These contrasting minds,
These figures all huddled
Round in dark suits
With polished shoes
These social triggers

The crowds lament
And protest
Yes, who was he
That thought it best
To make a jest
Of all the rest
Of our dear sweet lives