While Gert was pensively resting in Downward Dog the other day, this little poem by Sir Walter Raleigh came to mind:
What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother’s wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest.
That’s it, folks!
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All you need are a pair of those “Butt-out jeans”.
Leslie
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They must be stretchy, judging by the gyrations, but I don’t fancy doing yoga in them. How about you?
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They look like they’re made of a hard plastic bubble. Don’t look very comfortable to me.
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