William Shakespeare

Why?

Why? 'Tis a question I have heard so oft, My brain doth reel in confusion, aloft For, how can one answer such a query? The answer is not found in haste, surely For why must one do what they do? Must they not act upon their own cue? Why must one feel the way they feel? And why must one's life be so unreal? Why must one be so content? When life could be so much more spent? Why must one be so strong? When life can be so full of wrong? Why must one live life so carefully? When the world can be so full of glee? Why must one be so sad? When the world can be so glad? Why must one be so wise? When the world can be so full of lies? Why must one be so brave? When the world can be so full of the grave? Ah, why? 'Tis a question for the ages But the answer is found in the pages Of life and love and joy and pain For nothing is gained from the same refrain.