Ode to the Sick Day

Sitting in my cubicle,
Feeling sorry for myself,
Watching the clock tick,
Wishing I were somewhere else.
At home my bed beckons me,
Covers still turned out,
And I slump tiredly in my chair,
Trying not to pout.

It's Friday and I'm sick,
Wishing to childhood I could return,
So the nurse could call my parents
And tell them my forehead burns.
My nose is runny,
My body achy,
I really shouldn't be here,
But I've been paid my wage,
And my boss looms near.
Gone are the glory days,
When a sniffle brought you home.
And an ache in your belly merited a nap,
On nice, cushy foam.
So here I am stuck,
Working diligently away,
Thinking back to yesteryear,
When there was such thing as a 'sick day.'