That Old Fashioned Rock ’n’ Roll
I knew a man named Sisyphus who toiled without end
To roll a boulder up a hill he would his efforts bend
And daily as he reached the top, why, down that rock would roll
So he’d perforce begin again, this ever-damnèd soul.
It seems to me that we all share this Sisyphean lot:
We struggle every day to earn the things we haven’t got,
We labor ever harder just to keep that which we own,
And toss and turn throughout the night, awak’ning with a groan.
And yet we’re not in such a rush to see our labors end,
Though daily life can be a grind, existence is our friend.
We don’t know what awaits us on the far side of the Styx,
Thus most of us choose Life o’er Death if we should get our picks.
[Thus endeth No Po Wri Mo 2013. A poem a day may not keep the doctor away, but it has provided some small degree of amusement... for me, anyway!]