You are not the first to ache and turn green,
ill from the motion sicknesses and poisoned canteen--
As you hike up the hill of "What if?"
And once you spy the rat and you really get a whiff
It will become the mountain of "When" and the
ravine of "to be, not meant"
And barrelling down you now have been sent--
You have been sent to me like a telegram,
full of distant priorities, and "epigrams"
and lackluster wishing-well
Wishing me down a well--
Haven't you seen the proof
The reasons I am distant and aloof
I am decked out in black and white
and I am dancing into the night
I have drifted myself as well
And still you curse me to your hell?--
You do, and you do not know what you do...
No matter the trying he won't say "I do"
But that's not my fault
I didn't lock myself in his vault
You want him? he's yours,
are you not adept enough for the chores,
when he no longer wants you,
because the pawns in his game are too few?
Retract your claws, little one.
This fight's not as fun
as you think--
you'll soon be turning to the drink.
You'll have piles of nothing
and an empty container,
You'll need to bulldoze your ambition
and find your retainer--
I am nothing now, I am a picture, a thought
And coming back there I will NOT be dead, caught.
Tickle your toes. . .
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