Whatever Day Makes Man A Slave, Takes

We Men Are Wretched Things.

First You Don't Want Me To Get The Pony, Then You Want Me To Take It Back. Make Up Your Mind!

Who Hearkens To The Gods, The Gods Give Ear.

Like A Girl, A Baby Running After Her Mother, Begging To Be Picked Up, And She Tugs On Her Skirts, Holding Her Back As She Tries To Hurry Off—all Tears, Fawning Up At Her, Till She Takes Her In Her Arms… That’s How You Look, Patroclus, Streaming Live Tears.

So Peaceful Shalt Thou End Thy Blissful Days, And Steal Thyself From Life By Slow Decays.