I'd like to start with an I in this, But we shall start with We,
We are not being philanthrophic, There is no poetic gesture, We are old and starting to grey And we hope this ribble rabble be our new poetic pray.
Nobody reads our poetry my dear, Nobody looks at the sun no more We cannot write about politics Or women scrubbing the floor
What should we write about? We are a sad bunch, you and I, We are not the romantics Who will somehow make it about the daffodils and the sky
At this lunacy, it's a therapy session, Not that we can afford being sane Sane is for ***** willows, We'd rather drink in disdain
This time it'll be about the penny And about how we have none It's not a man, it's not a job, It's my selfish needs, it's about corn on a cob, We are using negatives to affirm what's really runing our lives Baby girl you had big dreams, let's make it poetic about that lady who wrote about flies I keep missing out and forgetting who wrote what about their pain, All I know life's messed up, gambling's fun But I am not new to the game.
/Here's to us, drama queen, That's right, it's your new name/