A poem by HANNAH FARRELL
The grind is universally detested;
Few men can bear its crushing weight.
Under its ponderous bulk all joy is arrested—
Its grueling drive elicits naught but hate.
The grind demands artful preservation,
Banging snooze with lethargy encrusted precision,
Drinking buckets of joe without reservation,
Looking askance at lackeys with cool derision.
The grind promotes phantom reveries
Of life removed from its soul-sapping clutch,
Of joy unbounded by its pesky devilries,
Dreams that falsely promise far too much.
Neither hate nor tricks nor hope deters the grind;
To these weak artifices it pays no mind.
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