Up with the dawn, the kettle sings,
The alarm’s a bleedin’ crime,
Grey light crawls in through grubby blinds,
It’s Monday—back on time.

The bus wheezes up the High Street bend,
Rain slicks the pavements thin,
A hundred coats, a thousand sighs,
We shove and all pile in.

The Tube breathes hot, the papers flap,
“’Ere, mind the gap,” they cry,
Dreams folded neat in plastic bags,
We stand, we sweat, we try.

By nine the clock’s already bored,
The grind’s got teeth, it bites,
But tea’ll come round and jokes’ll spark—
We’ll nick small wins by night.