Working Man

He is not a philosopher, he is not a poet
And he is not a man of note
And though he yearns for wealth and fame
There's many like him feel the same.

The job he work at has no trade
And as a labourer he is paid
And though his is a menial job
He owes not any one a bob.

He wake at five thirty each day
And to pick up spot he makes his way
An hour's drive in the old work van
Such is the lot of labouring man.

He lives a good and decent life
And he doesn't go home and beat his wife
But honest man 'twould seem to me
Remains at base of social tree.

He work and live from day to day
And government tax deducted from his pay
And he help the country in no small way
Still working man doesn't have a say.