Life's theme music does not fit:
its harps and violins lie,
its swelling waves of ecstasy
contain no endless sigh.
Its grand piano plays a tune
that does not match the trudge
of plodding suits en route to work,
to daily slaving-sludge.
Its wailing orchestrated mass
of rising ups and downs
portrays a rainbow at the end
instead of mainly frowns.
Its maestro guiding from up front
is fallacy, a ghost;
its music printed on a page
is tasteless as burnt toast.
Oh let me write my music
as an outcast on an isle
- barren, wasted, and forlorn.
Just let me rest a while.