All of us, when young, gaze onto this field
Anxiously. At twenty-four-years old
We stand here feeling unbearably cold,
Unsure of everything, not quite steeled.
No man knows whence this vision descends;
Still, it shepherds us mysteriously
Toward glum perplexion. Now the one tree
That's always here presumably bends;
And with that, it's gone. Then begins our work:
Featherbrained nonsense we wish to shirk;
Then our duties: obligatory crap
Surveilling like a wiretap.
Then it's back, and it's sharp— almost a knife!—
And it's familiar...it's...it's life.