If life is indeed a cabaret,
Then how is it that every day,
We simply make our weary way,
From sunup ’til in bed we lay?
If the world is merely a stage,
Then why work so hard for wage?
And why then do we fear to age,
If elders are supposedly sage?
If we’re meant to see ourselves as flowers,
That bloom and wilt after some hours,
Then why does Death make us cower?
And why does his nearness make us sour?
But let us say life’s a show,
One that is unnaturally slow,
And if we accept there’ll be some woe,
Does it make it any easier to go?
No, it doesn’t, that I’ll say!
For if life is good, we’d like to stay.
And even if it’s not, that’s still okay,
Death will come sometime, anyway.