These are the bad things that happen to me.
My wife doesn’t love me, my partner doesn’t love me,
my employees, my suppliers, my clients don’t love me;
my doctor, his dentist and especially the hygienist
don’t love me; and the world doesn’t love me enough.
These things bug me, hug me, tuli kupferberg fug me,
they make me their second skin and wear my
pain as apparel for social, or private entertainment,
a craven foolyard wrapped around my neck;
the world is a dangerous thing to beg
to love you, even a little bit of it, because a big wish
that buys a little might be fate, the right
question never asked, who can know
what was before what was.