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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…

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