NO CHANCE TO RUN HARD
Here I leave it all behind, going to fast
forward, trying to say something fine.
The yew bush has a new mettle, getting
loud and boisterous to me over nothing
at all. Now even the wind will stop.
Here is where the mailman rests his head :
delivering pestilence nearly every day, he
tells me he can hardly take it any more.
I listen and nod, knowing gently what he
means, yet not wishing quite to take his side.
That's pretty odd of me, I'd figure - also
inconsequential, egregious, and insincere.
But what can I say? "You're right, your life's
a total disaster, wasting away every single day
doing the junk like you do it, for pay."
Man, that's just mean.