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Exchange Your Strings for Schedules
The inconvenient sting
of an artificial truth
The useless facts all soured
by the folly of our youth
The mission bells a'ringing
The little things we make
The accomplishments we spread about
The appointments that we break
They all form a tapestry
Of trite and true remorse
That never stands to better us
Without reaching out for more
So as we try, we buckle down
To come to terms with this
The severed boredom of our lives
And the endless search for bliss.
