On the day of my birth, things were clean and bright, I had energy and giggles, and The Earth was quite the sight,
Things were all pristine, or that’s what I’ve been told,
My room was spic and span; my parents strong and bold.
My clothes were new and fresh, and the food we got to eat,
Was tasty and nutritious; life was quite the treat.
So, Mom cleaned my room, my clothes and fed us right,
Dad protected and provided; tucked us in at night.
We were healthy and happy, with play, work and study,
God seemed to love us all, and The Earth was our buddy,
There were holidays, family reunions and mirth,
And I thanked lucky stars for the day of my birth.
Yet, the world was turning; soon, rumours of war,
And greed and corruption, struck at my core,
But my parents assured me, things are OK,
And we dusted and cleaned, and we made every day,
As good as we could, with birth celebrations,
And births multiplied in all of the nations.
With more and more people, the air got polluted,
And factories flourished, and “have-nots” now looted,
While the clean and the fresh became much less each day,
We tried to stay orderly and put stuff away,
But the years make us older and weaker and slower.
How can we keep up?
And there’s melting of snow.
The Earth is now sick, as the dust piles high,
Birthdays still happen, and, yes, we still try,
To keep things attractive and working a bit,
But most days I watch all the dust build and sit,
The Overwhelm would go away,
Disease in The World is rampant today.
Our leaders are ruthless, and they will proclaim:
“Our house is in order,” and others they blame,
For poor food and health and working conditions,
And not sleeping well and oft-failed missions
And birthdays aren’t as they were decades ago,
Something is wrong; what’s this soot on the snow?
So, my house is all dirty, my clothes all unclean,
The shower and the toilet are faulty, obscene,
I try to wash and cut my hair; arthritis grips my life,
And I’m asked what I want; I have no child or wife.
Could you tell me how to dust a house that’s filled with so much dust,
Or how to clean the clothes I wear and wipe away the crust,
That forms around my cracking lips?
My life is now a wreck.
Another birthday ushers in;
I cradle my poor neck,
That’s stiff and hurts from decades of trying to figure out,
What it takes to live aright; what’s it all about?
On my 64th birthday, what I’m asking from you,
Is what in the world am I supposed to do?