As the clock of years strikes my seven years of working time,
The remembrance of jobs completed with high distinction is in my vision.
Whether it is seven years of good or bad luck,
This is something to me, which is not clear.
For it is for work we have to do, even if we don’t like it,
And just to perform to your standard of high quality,
To receive your just deserts, your thankful reward,
And these to spend to save on the cash you have on your hand.
But for seven years, for seven nice years,
I now feel as old as the furniture in the office.
At times I felt I do too much in a days work,
But this makes up, when little is done next day.
Not one word! Not a simple thank you is mentioned!
Anyone who is anyone that is decent, would have said,
But soundless rewards for years and years of service,
Not even a meaningful handshake to give myself importance of today.
Shame and disgust I can see in front of my eyes,
Hurtful feelings I have, mixed in my own heart.
That’s all right, maybe I expect too much from everyone,
Maybe I want more than I ask for, being greedy,
But not for the sake of being respected: for being myself
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