My thoughts call me too often,
telling me:
They think too much about the things tomorrow may bring.
Thinking too much about our death and the songs people may sing.

I hope they play Badu.
I wonder whose passing thru.

Is it that they’re smart enough to know
that this breath may be our last?
Should we be accepting that
somethings coming for our ass?

Bury us in rage, but tell our story
from these pages.
When it has all come to an end,
set fire to our red velvet
curtained stages.

Give our children all our wages.
Give our family all our sorrow;
please forget we ever told you this
if we live to see tomorrow.
We know this time is borrowed.
We know this time is borrowed.

by. Phil G. Steverson