Workahol

The days I am productive are
A resourced dwindling with time
Nowadays they're few and far
And often only deal with rhyme
In older times, I swear, they were
A common, almost constant stream
But now I fear the aquifer
Has self-diminished like a dream
That flits out of the nighttime head
Just as the sunshine wakes the eyes
And tantalizes from the bed
The woken mind with vain surmise
So as I dream of working well
I laze and feel those feelings quell.