How many days are wasted away

Hated, resented, and complained away

By unrepentant malcontents?

How many of those in the throes

Of plucking petals off flowers

And drowning in sorrows

And lamenting tomorrows to come

Forget to take breath

And look up at the sun?

How many sunbeams mistaken

By fools too bamboozled

By dismay unwaning

Are thus seen as omens and tokens

Of bad luck to come

For only the fact

That a mole on your back

Was put there by a

So obviously malevolent sun?

Stop whining, stop griping

Real people are dying!

Can they as they lay

Only minutes away

From Heaven now taking them in

Assuredly say,

"Take heed, for the day

While bright white and gay

The sunlight takes a heavy toll:

It was a mole that did me in!"