This dismal epistle
(grounds enough for my dismissal)
wherein I say,
"Things would be great if great things could stay that way”
Maybe I'm just depressed 'cos
no one's gonna let me starve to death,
or 'cos I'm doing well,
so much so that I must frustrate myself.
I'm into making hungry scenes,
losing teeth through loose chattering,
and shivering in my dripping dreams,
the kind they make on big machines.
Yeah, I grew up here, but
learned English from the TV, too.
In those young, slow years
what else was I supposed to do?
It's like all your fun-lovers
are only regional numbers:
divided parts to a sum
and vici, vidi where they're coming from.