The Job
At the age of thirty-seven,
Or forty-two,
You start to realise
There’s a job to do.
And you would not believe
The planning this job needs.
I’m reading up on economics,
Languages, philosophy.
I must go back into training.
I must exercise.
The job that must be done
Is always before my eyes.
With my foot upon the edge
Of the blade
Of the spade, I toil,
Sweat and turn the soil.
And you would not believe
The research this job needs.
I’m boning up on hydroponics,
Architecture, history.
And no one will explain to you
And you’ll receive no wage.
This job takes you outside the law.
But you must dig yourself a fitting grave.
I was thinking, last night, about how my secondary school, and all secondary schools, focused on little besides literacy and numeracy, that this was incredibly damaging to children, and that the arts should be given equal importance.
I agree completely. I feel robbed by the education I received. I really feel it was criminal. Every single subject was taught in such a way as to make it irrelevant, when it could have been so relevant taught differently.