Friendship is a plot contingent,
Relations lack feel and sense;
Sincerity too loses its very soul,
Now conscience isn't preference.
Possibly the time demands so,
But it pains humanity as well;
Poor realization surely comes,
But then only calamities prevail.
Why does one gravely forget,
That theirs is an ephemeral stay;
However proud of us, we are,
We're merely the puppets of clay.
