Happy the man*, whose wish and care
A house or an apartment bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own town.
Whose routine job, whose local stores
Supply his food and his attire,
Whose books in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcerned’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, balanced bank account, and peace of mind;
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease; leisure walks,
Together mix’d: sweet recreation.
And moderation, which most does please
Thus let me live, Facebookless, offline, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a grave
Tell who I was or where I lie.
* With your consent, dear feminists.
PS: I have taken the liberty to update Alexander Pope’s famous poem, hoping that I have not altogether ruined it. It reflects my present state of mind, and my quiet contentment with the domestic comforts of our time.