Why is it that just as I find a time for resting,
I think of another job life seems to be requesting?
Little jobs pursue me, destroying all my fun.
Life comprises all of them until my day is done.
Dogged and determined, I fulfill all of them,
tolerating constant toil, my life filled to the brim.
I am a proper martyr. I toil with little resting.
I have no time for joyful acts like partying and festing.
Tasks that are debilitating to much lesser folks
are to superior ones like me, merely nature’s pokes
to spur me on towards greatness—to glory and to fame.
In the annals of history, you’re sure to see my name.
So thank God for little jobs, for they add up at last
into that great accomplishment within which fame is cast.