I’m bored and tired of mere survival.
There is little more than social chatter,
And waiting for the mail’s dull arrival.
I even question the things that matter.
What value is Art if it’s all just lost?
Politics is a futile petition,
To politicians who don’t know the cost,
Of leaving us in a prone position.
I must remember the ride is too short,
And not one of us knows all the answers.
We are expected to hold down the fort,
Till we end in accidents or cancers.
Sick of listening to my whining voice,
But, sigh, I guess that I got no damned choice.