A job is just a job, they say.
You do your work, you get your pay.
And at the end of every day
You’ve little left to live or play.
For most this works sufficiently,
To work around the registry.
To live your life constituently
A part of one’s career to be.
I’m not opposed to such a life,
Suspending life from nine to five.
It saves a man a lot of strife
Provides a man means to survive.
Therefore my future plans include
A job like those which I allude
Create a life that is subdued.
But that is not how I conclude.
My dream job takes place center stage,
On violin I’d earn my wage.
And engineering’d be a cage
In which I’d work to my old age.
My life would change, my work would cease
To be a job, but inner peace
Instead would flow from every piece,
Be it Concerto or Caprice!
Alas I feel that this career
Is not my calling, for I fear,
The competition is austere,
And it could make performing drear.
An engineer, I’d use my smart,
To touch the mind, and not the heart.
And great solutions I’d impart,
But always I would keep my art.
Thus I’ve come to realize,
That engineering might be wise.
It isn’t, if I may advise,
Wise to make a compromise.
To make the arts into a chore,
That quickly will become a bore.
For, though my work I won’t adore,
My art will always let me soar.