We are a fickle bunch that states a need,
A patterned life might only true succeed.
We dance in storms, rather grumble toward peace
Yet every chance we have we seek release,
The pain, oh, the misery of lost time
Fantasy today tomorrow’s spent dime.
However long tradition’s eyes remain
We ought certain know acknowledgement’s reign
Priceless, shattered within our selfish realm
Will become fodder feeds the restless helm.
Ah, the human condition called to believe
Error in judgment, in planning, might leave.
When then we succumb to fears that soon ran
Why then we will know, we have conquered Man