His name is C.C. Hornbuckle,
And he prospers upon the plains.
Inside—oh, dear—he’s so fickle,
Stuffed full of ever-changing plans.
He plans one day to be better.
Then the next he vows to be worse.
Meanwhile, he keeps getting fatter,
And for death begins to rehearse.
He has ev’rything, it is true—
A sharp family, shiny job,
Nicest house with the nicest view—
Yet night and day does he still sob.
Of Miniver Cheevy he thinks—
He’s read a few books in his time—
Dreaming of knights of old, but blinks
The comparison away. I’m
Stuck in the now, not in the past,
I don’t give a shit about knights.
He does give a shit life can’t last—
It’s the oldest, tritest, of plights.
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