People live so many lives,
That are all so not me.
I could be somebody else,
Now who could I be?
It really doesn't matter, I infer,
In the end, it's a start and a stop.
The interim is a story of fiery storms,
You're a hero or a flop.
People here want to be the top one percent,
Then I'd be a fool to even try.
I'd just sit back in the ninety nine,
Face crooked with a smile very sly.
I'm done with this mad doing,
It's not something I subscribe.
I'm a leader and I can't follow,
Especially when nitwits lead the tribe.
I'd rather be a zero,
And die a loser like I care.
Let them fight it out, the dimwits,
I'll get out of their hair.
I'll make pots and pan, I can,
Pottery is a splendid art.
I'll play with clay, yay,
I'll ensure a fresh new start.
As far away as I can, I'll travel from,
The grinning saccharine plastic masks.
The ugly rituals of masquerade,
With enough hot tea in my flasks.
Then a bucolic brook, where no city crook,
I'd live on my serene own.
Far from the sad shopaholics,
Watch the verdant yield I've sown.
I'll work and write and draw,
I'll let my mind roam free.
I'll die in peace and let the insects feast,
Whatever is left of me.
