The Crab

Some freak sequence of genes
That just wasn’t supposed to be
A well-meant feature gone awry
A terror beast set free
A numbers game, that’s all it is
It’s pretty cut and dry
And, odds are, the house will win
It’s how I’ll probably die.

We do our best to kill them off
But, sometimes, one slips through
They blend in with life itself
And build, there, something new
And some pretend that it’s not there
A lie they tell themselves
That it’s not what it clearly is
As it eats away at their health

We do our best to keep ourselves
Ahead of them in race
In the small and slightest chance
That they give in into chase
And it’s as if we ought to know,
Beginning the deadly dance,
The steps that we’re supposed to take
The ways we’re supposed to prance

I personally think it’s rubbish
And I’ve said as much before
To dangle the carrot and hide the stick
To make us reach for more
To punish us for daring so
It’s a dirty, filthy trick
And every way we find around
Only shortens the wick

And somehow still it feels wrong
To talk about the beast
As if it stands an invite
For it to come and feast
It’s an infinite game of numbers
Where the odds will eat you thin
And if I do everything right
It’s what’ll probably do me in.