Noble Cockroach

Why do we live,

If not to die and turn to dust.

Why do we live,

In a world turned to rust.


The cowboy shoots his mark,

The seamstress has her lark.


The caves under nocturne,

Haunt the world with bats.

The orphan dines on rats.

Old cats smoke cigars,


With shady dealings with the Tsars.

What is good if good is not,

As my world turns to rot.

All those years, all those looks of evil eyes.

There is no fulfillment beyond a headstone,

Feasting on Raven, rats, and lice.

Haven for the cockroach,

The only noble life,

Stomped on by a boot.

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