One epoch, maybe two: my sole request;
To do as I wish, and to roam at will.
Without the load of labor on my breast,
With freedom to choose action, or lie still.
One week afforded me is less than naught,
Though more than less than nothing– such is life,
A short respite from which is dearly bought;
And I would pay it glad, though it be rife
With transitory pleasures only– yet
Autonomy is rationed frugally,
One wasted minute earns a day's regret,
And once all's over, all's a used-to-be.
So 'tis, in light of obligation's pow'r,
A week of freedom seems at most an hour.