The advice retold from a thousand ages.
As repeated by nonchalant sages,
Of how great it is to be content.
Now seems as worthless as a cent.
What is lost shall never return.
But be not quick to anger's turn.
And I ask of why must one agree?
Of all such indignant hapless sprees.
And just forge a smile in acceptance
But still turn blind to life's tenses.
Those with hearts pure and mouths loose,
Judge me for my angered truce.
A truce with a mind so clustered,
That it finds rest not so flustered.
But the failed minds cry of insolence and fate
Some blame their birth or their dates
And some just point towards the stars
And complain that the world sets strange bars.
Here they get bitten by the bug of complacency.
So they twiddle in content and lay back adequacy.
Delusions of grandeur would arrive soon,
And they would be a bane, not a boon.
For those who say they want and desire more,
Keep up ahead in all of life's scores.
And yet I agree that such greed may be wrong,
But so are those who sing satisfied songs.