Rhyme for the believers

We’re given tools for our success,
into our hands to Do Our Best.
The stock we’re offered, that we draw,
we use a little, abuse some more.
Use a gift, good or bad,
don’t resent the times you couldn’t have.

Lust on love that never comes,
unborn daughters,
the absent sons;
unwon races, missed-out chance;
to taste or not a true romance.

Break your bones,
destroy your feet;
tread the boards,
taste deceit;
the choice is yours,
good or bad you pick the course.

Blame your mother,
blame your dad.
Tell the jury you was mad.
Beg for mercy, curse your luck.
Never earn an honest buck.

Then, on Sunday: pray, confess,
promise priests you’ll Do Your Best,
until on Monday’s daily grind
you’ll put your morals out of mind.

Look within for all you do.
Would you want this done to you?
Is it wrong or is it right,
or is it just you’re out of sight?
Do you do it because you can?
Does it help your fellow man?
Given choice of wrong or right
what will you be choosing now, tonight?

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