All people are born to try:
Some try to tip the sky
While others kneel down to the rye
That grow while they sadly sigh
Over the years go by.
Their hovels will never go wry,
Their wives will not hear them lie
About their being some guy
That easily can touch the sky.
They know, their hour is nigh,
Unwilling to be in the high,
They listen how others do try
And fall down and finally die.
Unable to give out a cry
They will turn so empty and dry,
Will not even try to defy -
Fake as a man-made bonsai.
Some others will fall down and die
Trying to capture the sky,
Willing to give some reply
To challenges, they want to vie,
To fuck others claimimg "Lie!"
Raising some hue and cry -
They will pass indifferently by.
Both of these finally die,
Some have picked up the rye
And said their children good bye,
While others fall down from the sky
Or never return and die spry
Tipping the blue of July.