Thursday, August 30, 2007


Our mild squalor,
always tolerable since not burdened by shame
but buoyed by pride we preside.
Our young life,
in cities of our own devising
where the streets conform to our whims
Our hacking cough,
with feigned secret misery and sapphire eyes
unworried, unhurried - cultivate maladies
Our "reptile cunning"
is actually wit - dressed as though needful,
our unmercenary gift.
Our troubled hearts
rather are troubled minds,
troubled only by the trouble of inventing trouble
Our tame lice,
other self-wrought pestilence -
Surely endured, but with ease.

Our new coins of doubt have been minted of lead
Now they tug at our pockets, they blacken our beds
Shouts fill our cities and we're startled to find
That they ring in our ears and not just our minds.


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