Nor shall you inherit the earth
Says the meager to the meek
Do nothing more than work
Do nothing less than speak
Do only that which is correct
Lest we foil ourselves again
Reducing productivity
By a factor of nine or ten
I've lost all sense of style and form
No sense of tradition
No hope of recompense
Relieved of my fundamental position
The ground upon which I've stood steadfast
Now falls like sand through hourglass
Tiny specks once chipped from stone
Words and thoughts that lead us home
Living things all bound together
Attached by stitch of finest leather
Looking up with heads held high
To stars that wink at empty eyes
The sun comes round a little less each day
Dragging moon in endless way
It is tedious work and uninspired
Longing rest and soon retire
And finally as conclusion looms
The great black space of nature's tomb
The final circuit of sun and moon
The final whistle
Tools laid down
The last repeat of echo sounds