I want the old you back.
You were my Edgar Allen Poet
and I could always be sure
that no matter how crappy I felt,
you felt crappier.
Now you’ve betrayed me
and have become happier.
Who do you think you are,
Walt Whitman? All smiles
and lilacs blooming in your dooryard;
It’s all very disturbing,
curbing your lack of enthusiasm.
You’re up on the pinnacle of joy
while I’m teetering on the chasm.
Your favorite past-time
was to crash a funeral,
pretending you’re Maud
and I’m Harold.
Now it’s weddings and christenings
every day. Hey,
what happened to serious stuff like Death?
What led you astray?
It looks as though
everyone I know
is embracing la vie en rose.
What’s the gloomy-gus to do;
where are we to go?
I must find an antidote to purge
the happy virus. Anyone know
a good elegy or a dirge?
Leave a Reply