Will I be trick-or-treating at the age of fifty-four,
Freakishly screaming for candy all alone at your door.
Will I be an Amish sheep herder who lives in Maine,
Yelling orders at my woolen towels, neighbours thinking I'm insane.
Will I be pushing my children in their toboggans down a snowy hill,
Going home for hot chocolate, we're all frozen still.
Will I be having someone who will care for me when I'm useless and old,
friendships that lasted, memories of gold.
Will I be supporting my daughter through dancing for tips,
being forced to kiss strangers, their rough perverted lips.
Will I be obsessed over image, drowned in the mirror,
no matter how I change myself, happiness never coming nearer.
Will I be huddled under a home, made of a blanket and sticks,
With my children in their fort, inside our real home made of bricks.
Will I be a nomad roaming the desert alone with my mammals,
Needing someone to talk to, like humans I dress my camels.
Will I be on the top of the world when I'm diagnosed with cancer,
crying in prayer for help, brought to the grave with no answer.
Will I be so blessed as to find my God given soul mate,
Our only issue being language, we use Babblefish to translate.
Will I be smiling even when I don't have much,
Just my haggard hair, a shopping cart and a sidewalk to touch.
Will I be happy
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