One Million Ways to Get Here

The tempest wind through about your rowboat,
And you could not withstand it,
So it has come to pass that your soul must pass,
Into the gates, and through onto Elysium,
And you will find in there a way,
To stay sane and absolutely nothing,
A long and short absolute zero,
Faced with the aftermath of a thousand wars,
Your god will look at you and shake his head,
He'll ask what you thought you'd find,
Of course you'll tell him you hoped for paradise,
But he'll say, "No no no, you should have rolled the dice,
You should have done more gambling,
And let the luck rub off on them,
To keep them sane, to keep them lively,
Living in a world of self-abuse is not the world you needed,
So much not the world they wanted."
None of it in truth will get to you,
And you'll just keep on keeping on,
Through the long and short of it,
Until you see the truth on a million happy,
Aborted faces.

Children will grow up under the most strenuous circumstances,
Never caring for the world of monsterous adults,
They'll lose their imaginary friends to new lovers,
And then their video games will fire on back,
And the kids will afraid to go to far outside,
They will grow into recluses in adult hood,
Men-children who cannot focus on the tasks at hand,
And create fiction when they can't face the very absurdity of their lives,
Chasing back shots with shots of cocaine,
And enticing the ecstacy to bring them ecstacy,
When the nectar is no longer sweet enough for their taste buds,
And when they overdose, or when they run a red light,
They will stand before their god, and he'll say,
"My children my children, why have you forsaken yourselves,
I gave you life, and yet you didn't use it,
I gave you breath and yet you chose to abuse it,
In this long and drawn out affair you sat on your ass,
And watched other people make it somewhere,
Even to work from nine to five,
But you wilted away under notions of lost innocence,
But did you not know that others have suffered too,
You selfish little pricks."
And they men-children will not understand this absoluteness,
They will not fathom that they took it for granted,
They sought a pat on the back, a hug and a kiss,
And they wanted to be mothered now,
But they needed to mother themselves.

The cat lady in isle three with a cart full of tuna fish,
Passed the age of spinsterhood, and coming closer to death,
Will live with her overbearing insensitive husband,
And contradict what the dead already know,
And while she is indeed married, she mine as well not be,
She has three kids but is raising four altogether,
That drunkard sitting in his favorite recliner,
Guzzling the diet cola and eating the pork rines,
And enticing her to sleep with him,
When his pig gut is stuck out and squeeling,
She wants to vomit in her mouth, and she hugs close to her felines,
They'll purr and they'll comfort her,
And then she'll choke on their hairballs,
And Lucifer or whatever demon she seeks the most will greet her,
And say, "Well this sucks,
Don't it?"