I suffer from a disease that goes by the name of Loneliness.
It's an ancient affliction;
some sick kind of curse,
and those who know it best often boast: it's the worst.
But every now and then,
I look around me to see some fat cow in the company of a dead-eyed chudd -
spewing out a slew of inanities for lack of the cud.
He finally shuts her up with a kiss on the mouth,
as they walk off hand in hand.
I think to myself:
"How in the hell did they find a cure,
but I can't?"
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
I suffer from a disease that goes by the name of Loneliness.
It's an ancient affliction;
some sick kind of curse,
and those who know it best often boast: it's the worst.
But every now and then,
I look around me to see some fat cow in the company of a dead-eyed chudd -
spewing out a slew of inanities for lack of the cud.
He finally shuts her up with a kiss on the mouth,
as they walk off hand in hand.
I think to myself:
"How in the hell did they find a cure,
but I can't?"
Then I go over the middle lines of this poem again and think,
"Oh. Right . . . "
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