A job – as all men know – defines a man
Somehow. It gives man purpose. Thus we see
More than skin-deep those changes a job can
Effect inside. The jobless hopelessly
Are ineffectual: imbibed despair
And suicidal ruin take their toll.
But make man useful: cheerfully he’ll share
And toil hard. For real jobs clothe the soul
With something greater than mere coin or bread.
Perhaps man was created work to do?
Can work be play? Can work, like rest, be said
To be essential? At least, I think it true.
A man without a job is not a man:
But a burnt husk surviving without cause.
A man with work important will and can
Excel: to become more than what he was.
If man was made to work: than joblessness
Is nothing but slow-creeping death, no less.