You take pride in your
grim sanity,
The half-smile in your
eyes,
The incomplete passions
In that half-dead heart.
You rise up each morn
With a bowl of flakes of
corn
And a very prickly thorn
That kills your appetite.
No one knows what’s wrong
and
What on earth is right.
And you catch sight
Of chirpy, happy lads
That jump up from bed
And run all day
With spirits bright red.
They smile a real smile
Sometimes hidden by the
borrowed style
That you and your lot
Have given them as a gift.
Reaching there was good-
Lovely girls and wine and
food.
But look what you have
left behind-
The merry, hungry boy
That wasn’t half as blind.
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