I can't stop this scribbling,
words bobbing up and down,
conversing, inventing, conjuring,
screeching "Me! Me! Me!"
There goes a hand from "Seethe",
and I plunge into this evil scheme,
where in mayhem the world is turned,
by the scratch of a pen.
Nobody questions the obvious,
such as why Labour Day is named
as such, yet are all never
a day of labour.
Except for mums, for doctors
and nurses who deliver the baby
on the day aforementioned,
neither on which do all mums
go into labour.
And let's not forget the bus driver,
the taxi driver, the shopkeeper, etc, etc.
P.S.: Poetry can be so much fun:D