Once more I don these scratchy rags
and trudge off to the fun,
my worthless weary backbone sags,
the need to please long done—
those tarnished smirks they flip my way
just barely keep the wolves at bay.
What good is sweat, or true concern
for someone else’s glee?
Why grimly labor taciturn,
to finance their ennui?
These faded duds are worn right through,
a novel outfit’s overdue.
Are You Reading Me?
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