Upstairs:The Worke

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    Upstairs:The Worke

    I'm here at work
    why not at home
    They keep me here
    to keep me alone
    Its cold up here
    the workers
    are
    cruel as well
    Its just a short step
    from what they call hell
    Why do they do it
    To see me cry?
    They done it so long
    They don't even no why.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    deboe64’s Poems (2)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Upstairs:The Worke 0
    Daddy:Deboe 1