Best All Is Vanity Poems

My mother was an aristocrat,
at least in her own mind,
she had a certain noble air,
a ramrod for a spine.

She knew her face was beautiful,
exceptional and rare,
and when she walked into a room,
one and all would stare.

She held her mouth a certain way,
with Mona Lisa's guile,
but...

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Why must a man measure his success
in the amount of "stuff" he owns?
When at the end of his living days
he must leave it all with a groan?

Why must we have more than our neighbor?
There is no prize to win.
You will just spend your life never...

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