Yes, it's taken its toll, the expansive spread
of men and money, my widening tariff of
meaning. I'm standing out of this hotel, off
some mean street or other, and living off
my wallet. The proceeds of decrepitude.
The very bonus of evil tidings; hearing
the dunning talk of ineptitude's chatter
as it rolls down these old brick walls.
Damn me forever, and once and for all.
It wasn't enough, apparently, that I
entered this candy-mart with a nickel;
born to sludge, raised on Cain and Abel,
a dedicated son to bad tidings. A nickel
won't buy me my name. A quarter's too
much for that; yes, but a nickel won't do.