Not the best of thoughts

The morning weighs like lead on tired backs,
we move through life in a perpetual fog,
it's time for our spirit to pay its season's tax.

It does not matter that the writing's lax
in grammar, with the syntax of a log,
the morning weighs like lead on tired backs.

That torturer, life, sets up her tools and racks
our bodies with each twisting of the cog;
it's time for our spirit to pay its season's tax

but not above the limit, or else it cracks
our enterprising power, like a dead dog,
the morning weighs like lead on tired backs.

This moment turns the best of us to hacks,
we've naught to give, we're far too gone to jog,
it's time for our spirit to pay its season's tax.

Obligation's our mistress, before us she stacks
our work, then gives the order 'now, jump frog!'
The morning weighs like lead on tired backs,
its time for our spirit to pay its season's tax.