What is it we cherish? What gives us delight? What fills us with pride As we blow out the light? What fills us, indeed! For is that not our aim? To fill ourselves up; Is that not our game?
For each of us here's like An inn on the plains And we stuff ourselves full Until no room remains 'Tis the way of all flesh; We will always make room For the things we think treasures... ... We will ALWAYS make room.
