You have, if lucky, twenty five thousand days And a million books to fill this time It is just a cute little joke that life plays. And then to spend six out of seven on work that ‘pays’! Truly work should be banned, declared a crime For you have, if lucky, twenty five thousand days. That stash of books, my treasure that’s all over the place Is an excellent gathering device for dust and grime It is just a cute little joke that life plays. When will I read all those Shakespeare plays And all those novels of crime and works sublime? For you have, if lucky, twenty five thousand days. And what of all the untrodden literary ways, The beautiful novel conceit, the unheard rhyme? It is just a cute little joke that life plays. Books numberless like the stars in outer space Why can’t I have time for the small share I claim? You have, if lucky, twenty five thousand days It is just a cute little joke that life plays.