How like a jail, this wooden cubicle
Where I am paid to sit and calculate.
Since my ambition was more musical
The lack I feel aids Satan and his mates
All day I enter figures into rows
Or into columns vertical and neat
The walls seem nearer and I am disposed
To get my coat and race off down the street.
Yet I need the money to pay rent
To buy my food and go to Southwold Pier
In truth it is like Hell and I am bent
By living as if nothing true were here.
I need to find the space in my own mind
Where dreams can linger till I am less blind
How my heart sings 