By Richard McCusker (firstname.lastname@example.org)
So much to do on this busy day,
Such staggering tasks need attention.
Although late, in my bed I still stay -
Malingering is my intention.
Bright sunlight streams in through the shut blind,
In the pillow I bury my face,
As the slightest qualm of guilt I find
Now invades my comfortable space.
I have earned the right to call in ill,
I remind myself, and then agree.
If I donít do the work, someone will,
For whatís so essential about me?
I squeeze my eyes tight and try to doze,
But a nagging voice sounds in my head,
This is my darn conscience, I suppose,
And in time it drives me from the bed.
The same ritual every morn,
Yet, each day, off to my job I go.
If without conscience people were born,
Unemployment figures would sure grow