The Brave Go Gently

It's only natural, so they say.
It's only natural when children play;
and, tired by dolls and climbing trees,
they ruin the calm of mum and dad
by doing things grown-ups think bad.

Girls, of course, like pink (not blue);
they're all things nice (that's natural too).
While boys make noise and charge about,
it's only natural that they try
to tease the girls and make them cry.

It's only natural; need I say more?
The spotty youth, like days of yore
so surly and as yet uncouth,
turns on the charm with words of honey
to part his parents from their money.

It's natural to have a natural frolic,
a natural joy in mood bucolic.
The wedding wagon's the next step
and then – in season due, there comes a boy;
And now life starts, the real McCoy.

The man mature and woman caring
must naturally and with some daring
make their way in this tough world.
As Time's strong stream sweeps all along,
crass youth will sing a new strange song.

And now the natural road and its wise Giver
leads each one of us, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans liver,
across dark stream to - who knows what?
Is it natural with final breath
to sing our praise of natural death?

Or should we, as some sated souls when they approach
the end of time, the end of space, choose harsh reproach
and rage against the dying of their light?
Some may struggle, some ask why;
the brave go gently as they die.