Within the womb of mother earth,
Comes the phenomenon of birth.
A parodox of kind, so strange,
We even doubt it's morphic change.
Three score and ten the average store,
But some live less and some live more.
This is the truth, the law, the real
And there is no court of appeal.
No innocence beyond the womb
And no justice, beyond the tomb.
And yet no man that spends a day,
That does not mourn its loss someway.
And so we spend our grant of time,
No matter in good or in crime.
A feature of the omnibus
With different ends for each of us.
It's beyond my scope or cope and
Surely beyond the telescope.