Proof of the pudding,
In the roots of the living,
Still despairing on the errands
Of a sandbox that we're running
Into the ground,
That we're steering
Into the buildings of our Trades,
Life is cradle to the grave,
But sometimes stops short,
At the prime of our age,
We're primitive in brain,
Freezing in the heart,
Blinded from the beginning,
Hurt from the start.
Pour water in the sandbox,
Only makes mud,
Which gets on everything
Which ruins all the fun.
