Sponger

I don't want a job Dad, I've thought the thing through
I just don't think I'm cut out for work
I know you and Mum have spent shed-loads on me
And you think I'm a bit of a jerk
But I've looked at the options on offer out there
And nothing seems properly suited
To my high moral stance and my principled views
Which I fear could be somewhat diluted

I just hate the idea of working long hours
Or far worse, being part of a team
For I fear that my weak constitution
Would collapse under such a regime
And my circadian rhythms are so finely tuned
That to tamper with my body clock
could upset my whole sense of well-being
And result in severe aftershock

But I might contemplate a career in the arts
Give a voice to the genius within
Write great poetry or prose, I might even compose
It's so hard to know where to begin
Or I could tread the boards, but I'm tending towards
Something slightly less arduous or taxing
So perhaps I'll just paint or sculpt clay for a while
It would be far more “Zen” and relaxing

I'm so glad that you're both “filthy rich”, as they say
And I hope you'll support me until
I can fend for myself in this harsh cruel world
It's not easy, but where there's a will
there's a way, so they say, and I'm sure I'll come good
And I know you will both understand
That my sensitive nature precludes manual work
It's just more than my heart could withstand