Viewpoint Poem by Morgan Michaels

Old Jack won the lottery.
A million cool. Said the doughty fool:
'Pity, coming finally,
by all that lovely money
just as I'm about to die.'

Jill's rich, old hubby died
suddenly, unexpectedly.
Trying to be cool, she cried,
but, finally, couldn't manage it-
even laughing once, a bit.

Things befall men randomly
socking pain or pleasure to them-
The only difference, then,
distinguishing the ranks of men
is how they view them.