Forced optimism

Great stridesOh, the waste

As each day opens with sloth

And waits for duty or conscience to prick

The torpor that lays like fog

Over the mind, the body and the being

 

Oh, the slog

It is to inhabit clothes

That signify an aim in life

That indicate a desire to do

That will last the course and return to base

 

Oh, the hope

That in all of this recurring effort

The point should not be lost

That we are morsels, fragments of fate

Who can crawl around reason and smile

For we have plans

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