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The nights when you're in bed before I am
And there are many, I am sad to say,
Feel like the world has pulled a dreadful scam
To rob me of the purpose of my day.
The due reward for everything I pay,
The sweat, the effort: all it is I earn
Is to, at night, recite what I have done,
And hear the catechism you return
In our confessional: a one-on-one
Exchange of what it is we have begun
And what we'll do tomorrow. Without that
I cannot tell what was the reason for
The work I did - my life is dully flat,
And where I once felt rich, I know I'm poor.