Their Chosen Disease
I watch a sunset
that I'd love to share
and nobody sees it but me
I'm scratching my head
in utter amazement
that nobody cares much to see
Things to accomplish
things to get done
a million things every day
And all of these things
have one thing in common
they manage to get in the way
"In the way of what?"
as you may well ask
"I'm doing my best to get by."
And oh, what a shame
so sad and so true
we squander our lives 'til we die
And doing their best
devoid of expression
their faces are empty and bleak
So busy, so dizzy
en masse, repetition
robotically, chronically weak
And what are they doing?
Yes, why such devotion
to this seemingly endless malaise?
They're taking a rain check
and storing up treasures
and longing for much brighter days
No time for a sunset
no walks in the park
no place for a soft ocean breeze
They march on in madness
a dutiful army
en route to their chosen disease
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