I see people with suitcases every day
Some wanna go & some wanna stay
Where could they be heading?
In their unusual day & way?
Out in pursuit of happiness
To escape their woe of duress
So they are always in search
For a tree made of birch
To peel away the natural papyrus
And purge themselves from the virus
That constantly runs through their veins
Consuming all of their brains
No wonder they’re running away!
All work is just work without play!
And as they settle into what they’ll do
They’d rather be high than in stew
Soaking in all the muck
No matter where they go, they’re stuck
I could go on, but FUCK!
If it quacks, it’s a DUCK!
And now, my friends, I shall mumble off
Into that great abyss while you SCOFF!