This is it you smug bastards.
Once a month we gather to recite
A litany of psychoses while
Laura and John skip through life untouched.
My brother’s dying, the stress at work stinks
Like sewer gas, I have no friends left,
And I flow like a Neil Young melody:
Uphill molasses tears with the flu.
Still, we sit and watch tv:
Letting Dan and Rosanne live life for us.
Even they skip the fine details:
Is there anyone who wants to feel so much so often?
Did anxiety ever stop you up where
You couldn’t breathe? Is that resounding
Bass enough to relieve another week’s
Worth of invalid emotions? I doubt it.
So you sit back or join up or crank
Out charcoal depictions of the lunatic
Fringe. Trying to survive the seven to three shift
Is more than I can stand you bastards!