What comes when I read of death?
Those self-implied self-pity, no breath.
Curse the demon that tells us of this!
It laid nothing but the portcullis.
What do they say of death and life?
Had they really been on all the strife?
I always hear them call, "Unfair, unfair!"
Then what else the demon does
But laugh in his lair.
Do they see things in black and white?
Or see them in their own 'light'?
Do they see what they do to their souls?
They all deprive them of the adventure,
And ghastly live like dark ghouls.
What's really there? What is unfair?
Where do they find it?
And from whose share?
Don't they act too selfish and give up
And let the demon have it all on his lap?
These others don't hold their lives.
They weren't responsible for miserable lies.
They may do all else wrong to people,
But isn't in them lies the despicable?
Do they, who say life's unfair,
Do all of these in their own air?
Don't they, to themselves, are being dire?
Who is unfair? Who hangs the fire?
"No fair, no fair!"
Oh, you miserable blind!
Don't doubt, don't doubt,
Let it dawn in your mind.