Time

Our money is often wasted, so is our time

Not a crime for this is life

And my wife agrees with me.

We can see in our old age

That our rage has more personal roots

Our Docmarten boots are but enough

Life is rough and our die is mysteriously cast.

How we last, how we found our neighbourhood

Because we could, accorded by the rules

We aren’t fools my wife and I.

We will die in peace, possessed with knowing

A reasonable glowing from our heart’s essence

Because our presence. 

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