One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.
When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.
Ever since I first spotted it on a billboard, I’ve always wondered if life truly was a fatal sexually transmitted disease. But cheer up. Nothing like A Bit of Fry and Laurie in “when’s the day”—I mean, Wednesday—evening, to be precise—after, started with the obligatory good morning, all day of hordeing at work to earn your fiver for a pint of bread—I mean a loaf of lager—I mean … You know what I mean. Well, except for the fact that your own bathroom light switch was just trying to electrocute you. But that would finally solve the dilemma, wouldn’t it, or at least dump it on some other poor bastard’s head? There is an endless supply of us, I can promise you that. So, cheers, my friend.
Not used to receiving praise, I tend to approach it with some disbelief.
But that makes me wonder if this might actually say more about myself
than the others, for whom we do not even have a proper name, unlike
their cunning brethren, well known as sycophants, flatterers, or toadies.
And I am always puzzled by how rich our vocabulary turns out to be
when a sinister nature lies on the dissecting table. The good one seems
flat and dull by comparison.
hidden pilcrow 