Workaholic

Workaholic, say you, is to do work all the time your nature, People take beer, brandy, rum, vodka And in capers respond they, Which I suggest you not to take, But as I hear it that You a workaholic Which means, means that work is your alcohol? Even on Sundays and Saturdays, when people do they their half or no duties, I can see you striding towards the office With files and handbags, What the matter, How did you get addicted to, Workaholic? I am asking you a question and you responding to me not, Just looking into the face and smiling And asking to let it go, What’s the matter, What’s the matter, workaholic, Is there nobody in the house? Is your house away from and the load is so much, Are you under the pressure of the workload, Are you not a family man, Are you married or single, Are you in love with at the workplace, What’s the matter, what’s the matter, sir? I am saying, saying to you, but you keeping mum, What’s the matter, workaholic, Are you an hosteller or a hotelier Or is your house nearer to the office And that’s why the colleagues hand the charges over to you And move away freely And you facing the workload, what’s the matter? The family wanting to go on a tour, wanting to travel to a destination And you taking them not, Under the pretext of all official business and workload To be dispensed with and cleared And the files have accumulated And no time is there to picnick and celebrate, no joy to feel in life, Work, work, only work, Go on doing work, keep working, all this And barring it, there is nothing To recreate and enjoy, They smoking a cigar And you seeing them foolishly, Making tension-free And you taking tension, not yours, but of others’. Workaholic, is work your alcohol, Can you not without it, As see I you Working on even Saturdays and Sundays, No respite from, No relief from, You working all daylong From morning to evening, Isn’t it? People talk of the town week, Day after day passing And they waiting for the holiday to come, The office-goers returning by the weekends, But you in no mood of compromise, As geared up to work on the days of the holiday too As work is your alcohol. The townsmen start their days with the starting Monday, Then with Tuesday full of dull workload and execution, Then it continues for sometime more And from Thursday afternoon The day of hope dawns it To show Saturday is not a day, just a half-day And Sunday a full day of rest, leisure and entertainment. But you have no leisure, no rest, Always lost in the job of yours, No time to think and rejoice, No time to give to your family, Always in the work of yours With your house near the office And your friends as commuters coming and going, Staying for a few hours, All time journeying.