When we are born, we're wrapped in these.
When dogs lay on them, they're infested with fleas.
When we are cold, they take that away.
We curl up in them at the end of the day.
They make us a ghost on All Hallow's Eve
They've been riped and torn to mend a sleeve.
When we are alive they bring us so much joy,
But when we are gone they are not a toy.
When our bodies have been cast aside,
(Death, of coarse, has no need to hide.)
When our weary soles are withered and beat,
Our bodies are covered up by a sheet.
The simple thing that brought us so much glee,
Now covers what's left of us; shamefully.
Which just goes to prove, in life's crazy dream,
That things are not always, at first, what they seem.