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Even a busy urban man


Even a busy urban man may find

the number of his years begins to weigh

upon the concrete structures of his mind,

his balance sheet not red, nor black, but grey:

the coming day will bring him no relief,

provide for him no colourful event

of joy to break the monotone of grief

for assets he has neither saved nor spent.


And yet he laughs and rises from his bed,

girds up his loins to face the routine strife,

places his bowler helmet on his head,

grips firm his brolly, like a Spartan knife,

and, with the bravery of heroes dead,

plucks for his buttonhole the flower of life.

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