I breathe, I smile, I walk a mile,
I cook, I look, I sit a while.
Lots of things that can be done,
Can be a nuisance, can be fun,
But, professional, these are none.
Many ways there are to fuss
But always serendipitous
I watch the sky, I do fish fry,
I read the news and wonder why
People do what people do –
That puzzles me without clue.
Sometimes it’s habitual,
A funny kind of ritual.
Mostly for due recompense
For lots of time and little sense.
There is, of course the money thing
The chime of cash register’s ring.
Without cash all life would crash.
One must keep an eye on stash.
You’ve got to eat and sleep and fart
Plus, of course, there’s sex and art.
Some keep dogs, perhaps more,
Rarely, there’s a dinosaur.
Some sons-of-bitches like to kill,
Many settle for a pill,
But always there’s a way, a will
To have a say for time to spill.
But time just comes in discrete ways.
We’ve all got limits on our days.
A hundred years – we most go poof.
It’s a short life on the hoof.
Towards the end, we start to wonder
Where the Hell has been our thunder?
Einstein and Napoleon
Thought little of simoleon.
What the hell, what the fuck!
When you’re dead what good’s a buck?
But then again, reputation frays.
Are there better ways to spend our days?
No need to stomp and scream and shout
If life gives franks and sour kraut.
Not many sperm make birth to Earth
To figure out what life is worth.
It’s quite a prize to get a peek
At a universe that’s quite unique.