I Find Myself Using Soothing Magic.    
   This Is Bad. It'S Only Eleven Forty,   
  And I Have To Stay In The Work mill For 
            Many Hours To Come.           
     The Tricks Are Always Needed Come    
   Evening, To Cope, To Remain A Living   
  Being In Spite All This, The State Of   
      It... An Act Of Personal Quiet      
          Rebellion, To Survive.          
  But Now I'Ve Used The Magic Too Early.  
  It Will Wane Off And Become Powerless.  
       I Am Religious At Sunrise And      
   Existentialist At Sundown. Then I Go   
  Home, My Mana Wasted On The Capricous   
    Pursuits Of The Enemy, My Employer.