Can't help that all he does is deliver hurt, it's just his life
Forced into his job by a manipulative ex-wife

He was never able to leave with unpleasant higher-ups right off the bat
Pain is a funny little man in a straw hat

Stuffed in the left back pocket of his old khakis in need of mending
His list for the day is never ending

And there's always someone in pain
So he throws on his backpack, and waits for the rain

It's weighed down by the migraine jackhammer that he despises,
and the three period spears in various sizes,
add his inexplicable flame thrower,
and the rusty whisk for questionable bowels down lower,
plus a heartbreak granade thrown in the mix,

and whatever else needed for his cursed task till he gets off at 6