Buried in work from morning until night,
slipped into shadows to keep out of sight.
Helpful to everyone, there on demand
busied constantly, with pity banned.
Scurry, flurry, don’t stand still, must hurry.
Hide in plain sight; avoid all and any fights,
don’t let the buggers grind you down,
prevent voices, prevent the entrance
of that sound, your voice echoed, bounced off walls
‘It’s not you, you’ve not let me down.’
Bustle, hustle, don’t stand still, no hassle
just avoid radios and nineteen thirties musicals.
Be practical, keep a pocketful of excuses
alongside havfever tablets and paper tissues.
I am not in love, I have not been discarded.
Your voices edges in ‘You’re highly regarded.’
Pity banned, busy is the answer, run
to stand still, yet every night my clichéd heart pays
the extortionate bill.
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