The work of a slave driver is never done.
Her everlasting work is just no fun.
And by dusk, she knows it's only just begun,
And that sometimes, she must fire her gun.
The vigilant slave driver is ever guarded,
Her slitted eyelids always parted,
Making sure she's not outsmarted.
Daily, her soul's bombarded.
Work is driving me up a wall.
But I work at a flower shop...And next week is Valentine's Day. So what can I really expect?
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