The Sun Will Sunrise Rise Till Noon Then Sunset Set

if life is but a stage, very few I feel lives, will be a rage
who the audience, who the crowd, who will call aloud
life for most, is a common lot, toil for a living hot or cold
childhood play, stacked decades work days, then off the stage;
in old age exceeded, dies every idle pleasure, earthly lust
through goodness, evil toil time life boils away, as it must
till pain disease, perhaps cancer cells, a death nail tale tells
the only thing thriving, living in spent husk, is death spells;
life reads like lines, for a play written, for a staged audience
the pleasue of life, has youth long parted, in passion earlier acts
now the stage, is near empty rarely littered with aged, old hacks;
so lets eat and drink, and sing and laugh merry, while we are young
which is a good way, to deflect sorrow boredom, or unhappiness
for all will have fickle, unknown indifferent days, under setting sun;

Copyright © Terence George Craddock