Old Jack won the lottery.
A million cool. Said the doughty fool:
'Pity, coming finally,
by all that lovely money
just as I'm about to die.'
Jill's rich, old hubby died
Trying to be cool, she cried,
but, finally, couldn't manage it-
even laughing once, a bit.
Things befall men randomly
socking pain or pleasure to them-
The only difference, then,
distinguishing the ranks of men
is how they view them.
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Comments about this poem (Viewpoint by Morgan Michaels )
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