From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death;
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.

Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies;
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.

And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell;
And its fitting that it should
For in darkness I must dwell.

Like the color of my skin
Or the day that I grow old;
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.