There is a board of clay
That does its record play
With every passage of day
Boards of our lives!
Yellow, Black or White
So much recount our strives
The red lamps on the fore
Of yester tears recur
Or scaring stares of yore
That mouth never can tell
The wrinkled board that covers
May scream of empty coffers
Or plight of dirty labourers
Aside the creaming scrappers
The missing fragments of white boards
Lost in various loose words
Or in several gluttonous munching
The bearer well records
The various drooping heights
Are probably scared of lights
Illuminating their shameful sights
Unfruitful toils and numerous sighs
Bill boards of our lives!
Must you scream so much?
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