Within the time allowed,
To do everything I need to do,
E'er I'm in my death shroud,
The things one dreams of in these free moments,
Not occupied by life,
As presented by soci'ty at birth,
Marked by anxiety, pressures and strife,
Moments that are far and so few between,
Short, even at one's birth,
And not recognized for their preciousness,
'Til life's half-lived on earth.
Not complaining!
Can be no other way,
It's not the world you're born into that counts,
It is the one that you've managed to make.
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