Lungful                                                                 © Christian Moss

 

The broadcast that filters in brings news of hellish things,

How hard - the life of the pop singer, you drones wouldn’t like it here

Rough times for the chosen few, self-inflicted fashionable wounds,

Their lives don’t fulfil all their needs, my heart bleeds

 

Every lungful we draw is a victory

Countless steps, unchecked until they cease

 

If you think the forecast’s bleak, if you outlive the week

Seven days, a million won’t do this, there’s your perspective

Life spits in your eye, agreed, at times a sting indeed

This gift unto which we hang on, transient, appreciate, gone.

 

Every lungful we draw is a victory

Countless steps unchecked, until they cease

Whilst these limbs and this mind that carries me on

It’s time to be grateful

 

The wheels are turning unseen, relentlessly

Take a look, take control, and take it all in

 

I’m not happy-clapping here, there’s no faith that I adhere to as such,

I deal mainly with facts, although, I keep an eye on the unknown

And while this flesh machine keeps on delivering me

And I have my family to count, the fundamentals are sound