Not Grudging The Slumberers

My bus slopes slowly through the fog-clogged streets
Of humdrum London’s all-too-early morning;
I’m off to work as hundreds hug their sheets
Or stretch, quite unimpressed by this day’s dawning.
The sun is yet to rise; the cold cuts deep
Despite the layers of woollen winter clothing.
As others snatch some extra, precious sleep,
Snooze-buttons pressed, I must press on, still loathing
The chores I have to do, the daily drudge
From eight till six, to earn myself a living.
The folks that can lie in: I do not grudge
Their comfy slumber, since I feel forgiving
For it’s not long till my next holidays
When I, like them, can laze and laze and laze.