When the moon is nowhere to be found,
and when the tide goes low,
How to tell the turtles in the ground,
that tides do come and go?
My daughter pedals her bicycle fast,
I let out anxious shrieks,
How to tell that such joys wouldn't last,
and, oh, how tincture reeks?
The chaotic strokes of infant with a brush,
that's an average life graph.
How much pain will make us crush,
we are the just born giraffe?
All the pains and joys are minute,
the only eternal is the clock.
Let its hands mix them all to dilute,
the boiling youth's stock.
We can then stand off the cliff to think,
how mad was I an year ago?
Fall back into the eternal sea in a blink,
or get back to The Greatest Show?