Written in the cold today, outside the closed library:
Such a Pity
When I talk about politics, poems, or love,
My two kids roll their eyes and my wife starts to groan
And my best friends start crying "Enough, please, enough!
Get over it, man, climb down off that throne.
"We don't care, and why should we, that ages ago,
Some old fart named Somethingus said this about that,
And then Somebodyelsus said, 'Actually, no,
Since your whatsus is broke and your ass is too fat.'"
Then they'll laugh and run on about Friends and the Slayer
And "Isn't it awful that gas is so high,"
And I'm forced to conclude that there isn't a prayer
Of serious talk, nor a reason to try.
I shall have myself dubbed, by Italians, I guess--
Though there's much to said for the arts of Hong Kong--
When I ask "Don't you think?" I'll be answered with "Yes!"
I won't care the translation's hilariously wrong.
5:49:42 PM
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