Classic Poem

" THIS world is but a fleeting show "
(That line has a familiar ring).
You struggle all your life, and, lo,
It doesn't get you anything.
You think you're happy as a king
When Fate just biffs you, and you pause.
In solemn chant the mourners sing:
" There isn't any Santa Claus. "

You're strong for where the bright lights glow,
You say that youth must have its fling.
I've tried it too. Believe me, bo,
It doesn't get you anything.
The bees that gather honey sting.
The brightest jewels have their flaws.
Each gift of Fortune has a string —
There isn't any Santa Claus.

As Horace mentioned years ago,
The years slip by on fleeting wing.
You play around awhile and blow,
It doesn't get you anything.
With trembling hands to life you cling.
You strive for riches, fame, applause.
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling —
There isn't any Santa Claus.

L'ENVOI

Prince, there's no use in worrying,
It doesn't get you anything.
You cannot beat the game, because
There isn't any Santa Claus.