Here comes Mr Mushroom, his feet in the earth,
He's known he'd be soup since the day of his birth.
It's the same with Miss Tree, she knows she'll be paper,
A book I may write in come sooner or later.
The Pig- he'll be bacon, fried up in a pan,
The Pear-he'll be sliced up and stored in a can.
And The Strawberry, he knows that jam he will be,
spread thickly on toast by ladies at tea.
But for some folk the future is never this clear,
They'll shed their own skin but they won't shed a tear.
Their purpose is abstract, their planet a mystery,
the future is unknown, the past twisted history.
But I shouldn't envy the pear nor the tree,
Or even the mushroom who know's what he'll be.
The world, it awaits me beyond the horizon,
But The Tree cannot move from the soil she resides in.
And when I grow old and my hair fades to gray,
Maybe then I will know what I lived for each day.
I may have poor vision, my hair may grow white,
but at least then I'll know what I don't know tonight.
Created: Feb 23, 2011alice.here Document Media