I’m finally out of gas this morning.
I cannot write another word.
Who listen to my witless scorning
Are hardly ever even stirred.
Who’d ever think to blog his curses
In Alexander Pushkin’s verses
Should have his head examined so
They’ll see what made him suck his toe.
This writing thing’s so traumatizing
I’d gladly drown myself in booze;
Or hide away like Howard Hughes.
I’m tired of always criticizing
As our conditions here on earth
Grow more and more like Leavenworth.
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