These days I sense, with growing pain
that life's a game I cannot beat
with every card I seem to gain
I can't achieve the stunning feat
Of putting down a perfect hand;
the cards all seem the same to me,
the more I look and try to land
some on this card-table I see;
For playing cards brings me such pain,
as worries form, begin to lurk;
far in the back end of my brain
pile thoughts from which I cannot shirk.
Then comes the time to set back
down my chosen hand of cut-out
paper men. How I regret
that they have simply lost their clout;
This that drew me in to them,
before this fool's game began.
How clearly do my problems stem
from this ever, oh so clever plan,
I cannot bear a second longer;
the pounding in my ears is stronger.
There is no way to leave, escape,
through doors that used to stand agape,
And lead to places in my mind,
I can't, much longer, seem to find,
within this inferno of squares,
these bits of paper, each declares—
And what? When does the madness cease?
If I relent, if chains release,
Would I just fall down with the rest?
These paper men that I detest?
Who fold their hands, no dignity,
And give in to society?
It seems to be, to my chagrin,
I play a game I cannot win.