This thing that we call life,
Preparing from the time that we are born,
For misfortune and strife,
By people who haven’t figured it out,
Not those who did raise them?
Some say the fate of humans is sorrow,
Forever seeking out success and friends,
Never satisfied with what we do get,
E’er comparing to Jones,
Judging self-worth by what others attain,
Ignoring the forlorn,
For they’re failures,
Too lazy to succeed,
Until we find ourselves in the same boat,
Then we find others to judge in more need.
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