Burning Sticks At the ebbing point of lifeA man will drop his burning sticksNa the wars and race and striveAfter the festive and the gleeHe must drop his burning sticks After all is said and doneAfter all the strife and stressThen the question is to comeWhat with the light of the burning sticksDid the man behold in life Some in calling they will seekSome in creed will strive to meetSome in other spheres of lifeWith the burning sticks will searchFor the golden fleece of fame Some are born on quilted sheetsSome will run and some will walkSome will fail and some will winSome will yet their dreams fulfillWhilst the burning sticks have light While some strive to make ends meetSome will ne’er the race doth runNeither stress nor strive nor fightIn the puff and pant of lifeas their burning sticks doth wane That is why the seer they sayThat the graveyard is acclaimedAs the wealthiest place on earth.For that is where a lot of menLet unfulfilled destinies restAs they lived a wasted lifeWhile their burning sticks grow cold.
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