Playing the Odds

I went up the hill to talk to the Bone Man.
He leans on the stone fence and grins:
I haven’t taught you anything you don’t already know.

That we starve for the sight of another human face.
That we struggle and die for lack of breath.
That we’ll fight for the right to breathe.

The Bone Man’s teeth are pipped with scarlet.
He spits a handful and rattles them. Go to the protest.
Go on and play the odds.

We all got to die some time, Bone Man.
Roulette’s just a fancy name for losing slower.
That wheel’s been spinning since the day I was born.

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