Human nature is a box

And all the populace, Pandora.

"Let's see what's inside

And embrace our basest instincts.

Although it has killed our fathers

And haunted our children

It can only be nothing but goodness

And purity."

 

All of life is a river

And long ago a virus

Took up residence in its waters.

Someone once came

And died for the horn of a horse

That could purify all that ailed us.

But my neighbor has said,

"What a terrible man,

To ask that we follow his ways

And live cleanly and purely.

Would that everyone could glorify their own guilt

And wallow in their selfish deeds."

 

All mankind is a book.

The ink is spilt

And we are trapped

And marred beyond recognition.

The bookbinder came

To clean our pages

And to him we shut up tight.

But someday this book

Will Burn

And the darkness will change for light.

 

All the world's a stage,

But that metaphor isn't mine.