We inch along, the claymations, slow and without emotion.
This life moves fast, and is a gift.
So why must we lack devotion?
Take one or take ten, it's all the same;
we've grown so bored and jaded, we've missed the point of the game.
I wish we would realize that we're all works of art,
and that going through life's motions is only the start.
Where has our spirit gone?
We've so much that we could gain If we'd just stand up and buckle down
and start making our own names. For the work may frustrate here and now,
But how long can we pretend
that the most hardworking figures won't gain renown in the end?