The Game

You know the game, the game we play,
Where everybody starts with borrowed time,
Some start with more and others less,
There's no apparent reason; there's no rhyme.

We sell our time to get the things
By which we measure progress in the game.
Some think their time is worth a lot,
Yet other's time is worthless; it's a shame.

The things we buy don't mean a thing,
And can't be taken with us in the end.
The rules get changed at every turn,
And even those that look firm; they still bend.

Some sell their time to get their things,
While others steal and think it all the same.
But in the end we often find
We've missed the real object of this game.

It's not about the things we get,
Or how we make our nickels and our dimes.
Its all about the love we give,
And how we chose to spend our precious time.