Happy Days
Happy Days
Each is given breath,
above soil, toil and glory,
mouths expel a tirade,
behind a masquerade.
Each born pure in heart,
soon shattered; broken
jagged pieces maybe scattered.
Each feels the beats hidden deep inside.
It struggles to love, but rages!
against tears cried, each supplied
with both organs, and need,
exhausted moment, emitting seed.
Each with eyes, unable to detect lies,
a tongue its whip sting, able to chastise,
each is not supplied in rubies and gold,
a fool realises, in late life now is to olde.
Each foot step trudge,
to the hole in soil;
hazily remembers the glory,
not the toil. Happy days indeed !
Copyright © John Lusardi | Year Posted 2025
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