Existential Despair

After another day in a dead- end job
I’m once again at the pub
Drowning my sorrows
(whatever they might be)
And to my mates I blub.
 
It’s a kind of existential despair
In which we live, I think
Going through the motions, day by day.
Wondering what the point of it is
And if there could be another way.
 
So we fuck and fuck till we’re blue in the face
It is perhaps nature’s one true desire:
That women give birth in pain and agony;
Men are then able to sire
 
A child who works from dawn till dusk
In ash heaps till themselves
They turn into dust.
We can’t sleep in all day; we must awaken
And there are certain things that we must
 
Do, like fuck and fuck
To pass on genes to the next generation
Who will wonder what life’s all about.
They’ll work in dead- end jobs and drink
And smoke- and in their turn they’ll try
To figure it out.
 
But they won’t break the cycle
It just keeps on going:
Beer, babies, fear and self- doubt.