Try as I might to seize the day,
Somehow it always slips away,
Over my shoulder, into the past,
Onto the heap where dreams are cast.
Over and over, the days rush by,
Seeming to be in a rush to die,
Showing no handle a man could seize,
No inclination to slack or freeze;
We are the wood that the River Time
Tumbles and drowns – all rhythm, no rhyme.
