What matters fame? The world is dumb and vain,
And if you do not see, I can’t explain.
For we live complicated lives, and steal,
And lie to make ourselves look more ideal:
It’s foolishness, a flapping in the wind.

The rich make noise, but then die like the rest;
It can be hard to tell then worst from best,
For all, alike, have secret maladies,
And stand accused by old Diógenes
Of emptiness, and flapping in the wind.

For where now is the king, the financier?
Where’s the conqueror, the privateer?
And how much can the dead afford to spend?
Investing is just one means toward our end.

What matters is a day of honest toil,
And some connection ere the day we pass;
It’s knowing that our lives are like a breeze
That ripples gently o’er the summer grass,
For yes, we are but flapping in
The wind