A Ball of Rugs

Life is but a mere mass of perennial days, You live a day and it reduces one bit; You go on with your wayward wanton ways, A week is over and the mass looks so small. Whether you sleep or walk or imbibe fine whiskeys, The mass looks ever smaller and smaller; It does not matter what you do day after day, But you can’t bribe the clock with a dollar. And when finally the ball dwindles until it’s no more, You may feel some headache or some pain on the back; As Azrael descends to bear you to your eternal rest, Or wherever goes the folks who kick the sack. So you have your untouched ball of rug at birth; Pray if you have the grace and steal if you have the guts, Build huge castles or dine and wine if a gourmet, And trust the ball’s end to cut short your race…