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