(R. Matsuo)
Is this your life, Mr. Jones?
Is this everything you own
After years upon years of fighting your fears,
and working your fingers to the bone?
Is this where you call home:
four walls of cardboard and stone?
Can you still dream at night of what you wanted from life,
or is wanting all that you know?
Are you taking all that you can
of the promises made to every man?
And for what it's worth, we're all equal at birth,
but not all the same in the end.
Do you have more than most of your kind,
but need less of things than of time?
Do possessions reflect what you deserve in respect?
Is respect just peace of mind?
I know we can see. I know we can be.
There will be truth in all men's minds once again, in the end.
Mr. Jones what do you see
when you think of people like me
Who look down at the few unfortunate like you
And hope that our time will never be?
He lies in a world of his own,
the tattered remains of Mr. Jones.
Do you cry for his want and for those who have not,
while counting the blessings of your own?
