“How does it feel to be a guinea pig?”
An old hobo did once ask of me.
It was dawn, the morning sun rising,
Up all night in a park were we.
On a sidewalk inside New York City,
Much like mice, inside of some maze;
Wandering around, as we hung out,
We stumbled about, as if in a daze.
We had a hard time comprehending it,
Although it was quite clear to see:
We did not plan a life on this earth,
But that’s exactly what came to be.
“Judge not, lest you be judged.”
One and all are in this together.
As each must carry a heavy load,
Existence is light as a feather.