The problem: not enough hours in the day.
How do you seize a flying bullet, hmm?
It hits you, you fall backwards. Like a bum,
You dream of some escape, some bed of hay.
We want the womb or tomb, not stress or strife.
Our bodies argue, What’s the point of it?
Have kids and chatter, pour a drink, and sit.
It doesn’t matter, just enjoy your life.
But dreams and schemes will rust, infecting us
With lethargy and resignation if
They’re not well-oiled, and we’ll grow old and stiff,
Accepting that fortune’s rejecting us.
Acceptance is the final stage of death.
Work hard, then harder, till that final breath!
Wed 6 Dec 2006
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