The world, my friends, is a fleeting thing, and life, swift passing by
Like silent film outside the train, blurred trees against the sky
And birds, small flecks, shot from the grass to pepper clouds with black,
Yet nothing would I change a whit to veer from on this track;
If hurtling time should slow its pace in this great journey’s run,
There’d be no more such tales to tell, no news under the sun,
No destinations to explore, adventures to be had,
And not one bit of joy that’s new, and wouldn’t that be sad!
So I’ll hang on and buckle up, and hope what’s speeding past
Won’t leave me in a cloud of dust. I’ll get there, too, at last.