An small meander regarding glass professionals.

Untitled Poem

The glazier cuts and sets the pane,
  The gaffer blows the jar.
And both know well that glass means pain;
  Both cuts and burns can scar.

So why then does the glazier stand
With bloody lacerated hand
And claim his job is oh-so-grand,
  E’en when a slip might flay?
And why should gaffers speak of “‍art‍”
When white-hot glass strays near the heart,
And not seek out a safer part,
  Like making jars of clay?

I err when safety I extol;
  The dangers bring no fear.
It’s laboring that sates the soul;
  The loafer sheds the tear.