You want to live to a ripe old age,
But rather not by growing old.
Can't be done so tether your rage,
Relax, be smart, come in from the cold.
Join the toothless-talking droll,
Balding braggarts who roll the dice
And hesitate to sell their soul
(To you-know-whom) at any price.
Something I almost forgot (on purpose):
Not made and sold by Big Pharma,
Likely as lively as a three-ring circus:
Yours and yours alone: it's karma!
Nothing is forgotten, my friend,
Nothing forgiven without repentance;
No matter how much you want it to bend
There's no confounding karma's ascension.
The Reincarnation Blues has a drumbeat,
A rhythm that keeps your blood awake.
To challenge it results in a drab defeat,
A sudden sodden chilly checkmate.
Whether you're black or white or in-between,
Your attack is obvious or by a queenly gambit,
It depends on how by the gods you're seen
To have loved – truly or merely to have faked it.