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 'cause
no one's gonna let me starve to d**h,
or 'cause 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.