Try to focus and refrain,
From transient gain,
Keep yourself in the game,
Like a moth to the flame,
Momentary bliss,
Is worth less than piss,
When staring down the barrel of a gun,                                                                    5 years later, with nowhere to run.

You see my son.
There’s no point in fun.

If living just for a petty thrill,
Rather than climbing that steep hill,
Of hard work, persistence and pain,
It’s your choice whether it’s that or shame,
Because what you put in now,
Will make former masters bow,

In 10 years time.
Crossing that finishing line.

Take the other path,
And no one will laugh,
Heed my warning;
Lest you will be mourning.

Because sliding down that hill,
Is a fate worse than a cyanide pill.