We interrupt 1968 to bring you this poem:
If anyone were so bereft
he couldn’t do a simple thing like not snore,
he certainly should be land-damned.
I lacked the wherewithal I needed,
to survive a decade plus shear terrorized
by experts at school, and a talented amateur at home,
please excuse me, no, not an excuse,
an explanation: I was damaged.
Who needs a mother’s love? Who?
Babies, that’s who,
and I had it for a year or two,
so what’s the big deal?
Stop your bellyaching.
I was his namesake, his son,
and I even looked like him.
But people show love in different ways,
it’s only human nature.
My little sister missed him more than I did
when he stopped coming home from work.
I think we all wondered what we’d done.
I’ve never been a good bread winner.
It’s not the work part, work I can do,
it’s the job part, there’s never been one I could stand.
So exposed; temperamental; anxious; and those people!
Make a note: never hire this guy.
I can be charming, but I’m not very nice.
It comes out finally, the real me.
I try to be polite, but finally I just go off,
Old Faithful, that’s me, just wait.
I tell people that I love them,
it works sometimes, I get what I want.
Honestly, I don’t think I have it in me.
My fault, I should have tried harder to learn.
Mea maxima culpa:
I have chosen to waste my talents,
a serious affront to god.
Chosen never to be happy, chosen to push people away,
a serious affront to society.
I lacked character and chose indolence over industry,
unproductive, leaving nothing behind.
Mea maxima culpa.