Happy To the End
Happiness or Joy
Happiness is an emotion of the mind factored on chance or luck.
Joy is a condition of heart and soul.
Do I want to be happy? Yes! — I would trade it all for Joy.
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (NIV, Matthew 6:19-21)
“What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?” (NIV, Matthew 16:26)
Happy To the End
If money were no object, I’d be happy to the end.
Buy all the toys of heart’s desire and gads of fads in trend.
More stuff and druff of never use, may get to them one day.
Each tinsel, trinsel bling,
to wear, for show and fling.
Must have them all, large and small, just store them all away.
When dubious freinds would ask of me to spot them simple cash
for things they need or are without or just a place to crash.
Make sure they know how hard life is I’d offer them advise.
Money don’t, you surely see
grow on rocks or in a tree.
On every tide, put some aside, that’s lucre for the wise.
Must guard what’s mine and all things bought and save from being prey
from any who would have design to take my wealth away.
An island grand, my private land, I shall myself acquire,
then place it all behind a wall,
make sure the wall is very tall.
Stop prying eyes, revenue guys, make sure my wealth grows higher.
In vaults of steel I’ve placed my cash just for that future day
to flaunt with pals who come to call but, no one comes to play.
Of all the folks that I have met and those recalled from school.
Not one that I can call for real,
I know they only come to steal
and take what’s mine, my gold, my wine and play me for a fool.
O, to be back in promise land, my self made slice of heaven.
Here all alone, and of my life, my clock strikes past eleven.
What good to me are cars of gold, closets full of suits untold?
What use is bling, tied to this bed
with tubes and wires, lights blinking red.
Nurses run, doctors come, – my eyes they close, my arms they fold.
R. C. Tilley