Why do we always insist on trailing a hand in the water,

As we travel the Styx with fate at our heals?

We know its chill flow will give us no quarter,

But we just can't resist how it feels,

And there it is, an answer without reason,

With nought but the humble need to implore,

To beg at the end of life's final season,

That we have one last chance to feel it once more.