Ken: is wondering what the heck is keeping Godot. I’ve been waiting for ages.
Steve: Well, it’s not like he’s at your Beckett and call.
As many people know,
While waiting for Godot,
There’s a tendency for life to be frustrating,
The secret, oft implied,
Is one must be occupied,
For the silence then tends not to be so grating.
To wait for Godot
is a farce, you must know,
a comedic display of our lot.
The only sure bet
to beat death is a wet
Pilsener: that and a shot.
What was it he meant?
What was Beckett’s intent?
Was Godot death? Our ultimate fate?
We can muse through our rhyme,
And indeed pass the time,
At the tavern, with Pilsener, and wait.
Beckett said Feckit when asked
the meaning of life, so that task
is assigned by default to mean ‘fate’.
Existentially speaking it’s crass
to expect us poor bastards to pass
all our time with a drink and a wait.
With meaning it’s rife,
Some say death, I say life,
The distinction lay in the details,
So you buy the next round,
While we wait to see which one prevails.
When I’m laid in my family plot
(id est Death–not some casual slut),
I expect that I’ll offer a toast:
‘Bottoms up!’ I will cry
though I don’t mean to die
with rump placed well uppermost.
Beckett posed questions essential,
Both serious and existential,
Though complex and rich,
Life can oft be a bitch,
With shitstorms that are most torrential,
Still we search and always are gleaning,
Trying to give life some sort of meaning,
We sometimes lose our bearings,
With all sorts of red herrings,
For it’s only we that can give life potential.