Short O' My Time

A Poem by A.E.©A.E. 1918

There's one class of man you all must have met
(I'll try to describe him in rhyme);
He's worried and dismal the whole of his days--
The man who is "short o' his time."

In the shed or the street wherever you meet
With him, it's the same old whine--
Off duty to-day, this game doesn't pay;
I'm terribly "short o' my time."

"The last pay I got (a small one for me)--
I only drew thirteen-pound-nine--
Some grumbled and said I got more than I should;
Fancy that! and me "short o' my time."

"You talk about men doing eight hour shifts;
Old Blank is a miserable swine--
He'll work every day the round of the clock
And here am I short o' my time!"

"I've only been getting four Sundays a month;
The young drivers say it's a crime;
But I have to get in the Sabbaths as well.
Or else I'll be short o' my time."

The others may starve, but he means to live,
To work a short shift he'll decline.
Twelve hours for him seven days of the week,
Or he'll moan he is short o' his time.

Notes

A.E., North Melbourne. From The Footplate 9 July 1918