We struggle in life to make a living,
We work ourselves down to the bone,
But never are we thanked for living,
Instead we make it on our own.

Every artist that you know of,
Famous in their passing.
They never know their legacies,
Never know their lasting.

Not just those with a brush,
But each poet in old times
Will never see the day
That kids study their old rhymes.

Each composer will not hear
The symphonies they create
Being sung by a choir
Until after meeting fate.

Fame does not come easily,
"All he had to do was die,
It seems a lot less work,
We ought to give it a try".

We respect those that did,
Not those that are doing,
It seems this way of life
Will be our own undoing.

If we have no regard
For each soldier that fights
For each star that sings
For each poet that writes.

We will lead them to their graves
Just for that single taste,
For their legacy to remain,
For their legacy to be graced.

It seems that man is hungry,
Power, wealth, all the same,
It seems that man is greedy,
Needing his final fame.