When the daily grind never seems to end and all the world’s worries have landed on your head.
When you’re full to the brim and the brim is slog and the slog is heavy and the slog is tough. Every part of you is tired, every part is worn. Every part keeps working from dust till dawn.
You slog your guts out just to get by, and you’re stressed in your chest, and your head feels high as a kite at night when the sleep won’t come cos your mind is filled with this and that, with too much grey and not enough light.
Pumping the blood around your veins is the wonder, is the failure of a life less gained. Dark red strips of thunder plunder your every breath, every step you take and the moves you make are leaden, down trodden begotten by all the slog.
But the slog won’t win though the slog can try to push you to the edge of goodbye. The slog can try but the slog will lose it’s grip on life, it’s grip on you for the chains that bind just can’t pull you down; you’re the winner, you’re the champion who wears the crown.
You’re the winner, you’re the champion who wears the crown.