Whether he should go to work or not,
Or climb the ladder of success,
Or wait out the stock market,
Or take a stand on some moral issue;
If it all weren't so brief, their life of seventy years or so,
Their undesiring acceptance of changing from boyhood to old age;
He would've liked to have been a boy for fifty years
And a young man for many more;
Yet time passes faster than the shattering of a door, or a cricket;
He's not ready for the grave, but each day that passes
Draws him closer to it;
Why all the rush to be absorbed into life when,
Before you know it, a group of relatives and friends
Are letting you know you've had it, you lean back in the chair,
Or on the couch, or on the bed, or on a slab in a mortuary;
And some joy's replacing your blood with formaldehyde
To keep you from smelling up the place;
In this moment of quietude at your funeral,
Your friends and relatives are shaken,
Thinking about you and whether eternity is forever.