We fill ourselves with news that’s gone by morn,
Each day the old no longer holds the mind.
Fresh toys or gossip evening hours adorn,
Unless we write or paint, the new to find.
Our souls do not inspire the monkish life,
Nor quell our inbred nature to consume,
Novel events are life’s incessant fife,
Consumption only ends when in the tomb.
Old books, once read, lie still upon the shelf,
And fresh, less worthy tomes take up the stage.
Our restless minds forever seek new wealth,
To boredom quell, we always turn the page.
New toys grows stale, and soon becomes mundane.
Monotony’s much worse than daily pain.