Chicken

The foolish boys in a game of chicken,

They might both be programmed to want to 

          crash,

To die young, to not grow old and sicken,

Let's dodge age, let's end in a glor'ious bash!


Perhaps the human race is like the boys,

We're programmed to have a short duration,

To burn out fast with our rage and our joys,

Doomed never to reach our maturation. 


I feel all right 'bout an entropic fate,

It might be that our death will help others,

It might be that we are worthy of hate,

From our cosmic sisters and brothers.


Tonight on the road, I won't turn the wheel,

I'll go on straight, no matter how I feel.




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