Work

He'll dance, she'll sing, he'll write, she'll bring
him meals to table twelve -
and all of them will call it work.

When acting parts or making stitches,
pulling carts or digging ditches,
playing ball or rigging boats,
just on call or hitting high notes,
all of them will call it work.

When photographing, contemplating,
selling cars or decorating,
restoring pictures, mending leaks
or re-upholstering antiques
all of them will call it work.

But some there are who just for fun
will do what others try to shirk,
while others yet, find fun and work
in schemes and tasks that most folk shun.

A ball may travel far, I've heard
impelled by force of bat -
and bat and ball will say it's work
because of energy transferred.

The energy transferred at work
can leave a body spent -
and I am mighty peeved to find
my pay is down a cent.

Energy's transferred as joules
which A spends in fond hopes of jewels.
B merely wants a cosy pad,
a place to hide when things get bad.

Energy, St Einstein  said
and mass are on a par.
E = MC² - its truth
is writ in bomb and star.

He'll growl, she'll fret, he'll cry, she'll rage
at others earning more,
conditions in the works canteen
or on the factory floor.

He'll hardly notice time go by,
nor she when work refreshes.
He'll lose all track of common things,
they'll only care for quality
when work with mindset meshes.

Written for Stuart McPherson's prompt Workin' for it at http://dversepoets.com/