The Mole

Boo hoo hoo! Such woe is you.

Get of your pity pot.

Until you do, take care, my boo!

I cherish what I’ve got.

 

By doing less, I would confess,

In action, not in words,

The point I stress, seeking redress,

Is springtime without birds.

 

Your words are harsh for early March,

And steeped in controversy.

But so well said, this self-made dread,

Is truth devoid of mercy.

 

Get me off this spinning wheel.

Where is the firmer ground?

“I do not know,” so says the Mole.

“To a spinning rock we’re bound.”

 

What seems quite clear to listening ears

Is that no grass is greener.

We all shed tears and dread all fears

And learn to live life leaner.