We're all on borrowed time,
Waiting for that one perfect line,
But if it never comes, will we mind,

That our list of merit has met an end,
No magnum opus, nothing so grand,
Just a box full of stained paper, so rad,

Hardly anything that rhymes,
Nothing that is ever so sublime,
Just barely slipping every line,

And repeating the words on our mind,
Right until the bitter end,
And when we're gone how do we know if it festers into something grand,

So we just spend our rad
Time
Sublime