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!”