Man's Work

OH THE whole worlds come, come all We fill up the world maritime with soil- I know that is against natural appeal Therefore our precious time shall we fritter away; For where we hollow out the soil from There shall we leave another sea- Where then shall we term residence? But uh humanity come a few, hardly any hands We lug this edifice down to ground, And we put a new-fangled one in its place- I discern that work is trouble-free For work of the hands of man Shall never last long into the future, It can be ruined in a day, any time.