The irony of everything, my lad,
Is that the time you have you never want,
And when you want it, time cannot be had.
You work, and wait for leisure’s happy jaunt.
But when it comes you waste your leisure’s pay.
Instead of writing everything you can,
You write away the time to lazy days.
A fool I’ve been, and further, fool I am
For pining after what I know I’ll waste.
And yet, I cannot bear the endless cram—
The ever-wending never-ending haste.
But what on earth am I supposed to do?
If you were me, how would you make it through?
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