Hours go by one by one, with unpleasant sluggishness,
on your heart, locked, is a press, a stress, for we aren’t done.
This day goes on without halt, work then chore then more and more,
until spirits are left sore, and your eyes hurt without fault.
Then, the hours pass and pass, into when the sun is red,
dinner’s served, a healthy meal, eaten without nothing said.
Then, all problems hereby melt, into one, a cup of wine,
making evenings just fine, for us all a leisure spelt.