From the journal Material For Thought, issue number 2
© 1990 Far West Editions
OUR LIVES ARE ALL AWRY
Prologue should be epilogue.
Our lives are all awry;
We should be born when we are old,
And die at our first cry!
When all the feast is spread before,
Our reach is for a rattle;
Grown old, the wisdom slowly earned.
We waste without a battle.
How good, if when we reach the end,
We still could time outrun,
Endowed with energy we spent
On “This little pig had none!”