As our finite fingers grope
as we reach for a star
we come back empty handed
and realise its really too far
Is there gold at the end of the rainbow
as all I found was mud
they say there’s love in our heart
all I found was blood
So, man stumbles on
mundane, day to day
with clumsy big feet
getting in the way
High ideals and dreams
discarded for now
what’s the point in worrying
anyhow?
