There is a fly that's born,
In the span of its life, not much happens,
T'make you or I forlorn,
The death of 'bout four point five million folks,
That is thirty days-worth,
But, ten million babes are born the same time,
So there's a greater ratio of mirth,
But, many of those deaths are more tragic,
Births, equally joyful,
One point three billion live in poverty,
Extreme and sorrowful,
Then there is you,
Where to you fall? Do you?
There is no escaping comparison,
No gauge of your life can be absolute.