Frail flesh is heir To a sea of troubles, And the human condition Impaled upon the horns of choice: To linger, twilit, In fringes of oblivion Or to bury hardened heels Stubborn, in fallow dirt ? There is nobility In the vacance of the vessel The dirt smeared beast, Spine bent under burden, Struggles through the muck And is reborn in the mud, To struggle, beaten Bloody but unbowed Or to buckle at the knees And draw mud into lun Now the second: The obliterate's nature, And invertebrate mutt Or self-contained god ? The quietus of cowards Or a divine transcendence ? There is nobility In the vacance of the vessel The flesh is heir To a pale cast of thought, To a bare breast to whips Or by ignoring, end them ? All that matters is struggle The third question; The nature of the realist, A worm feeding on mud Or human in excelsis ? The ceaseless trials of Sisyphus Or a noble struggle ? Every absurd query Deluged, deeper in sh** The slate-eyed god: An addict of transcendence Grins madly in the grip Of a selfish junky zen Unhinged mind unmoored And heels in tug's tide Empty, vacant, useless Listless, in opiate voids The nature of man Is thought before the answer A struggle The nature of man Is constant internal battle All that matters is struggle The flesh is heir To a pale cast of thought The mind rotten with Whips and scorns of doubt An internal struggle From which humanity stems: To bare breast to whips Or by ignoring, end them? All that matters is struggle