What am I to do with the time I am giving
The clock is the hand that chooses my path
My past behind to the future I'm driven
But my feet have been stayed by society's wrath

Four years have I sat in the seat you sit there
Watching the arm go 'round without a care
With the sun on the horizon, and me unprepared
The hope of success seems hopelessly rare

The ink has dried, the script is writ
No matter how hard, no matter the grit

What will the wills of another force me to do
Predestined to be forgotten I'm filled with sorrow
Opportunity lost and for the once the blame is not on you
Alas the sun is down, I must await the morrow

Whatever toil I must endure, whatever weight I must bare
Whatever demon I must conqour whatever dark I must stare
I will do what I will do to recieve my fair share
The prospect of failure seems hopfully rare

The ink has dried the script is writ
And I know not where my part will fit
I will not be denied
No matter how hard, no matter the grit