Perhaps I don't much enjoy the tone of voice

with which this particular life does speak,

but owing to the fact that I don't have much choice,

I sit still in my corpse; watch my time unit leak

Much of the day I talk trash to myself,

scribbling diaries that I stick up on the shelf

I'm not really sure anyone else does exist,

like Dylan I punch myself in my face with my fist

Tomorrow is but a poor slave of Today,

no matter how your opinion goes

You may stand tall or fall short on your toes,

move ahead or remain where you lay

Existence is but a pastime of sorts,

spent with useless & dubious cohorts

You best stay horisontal with pieces like this,

or watch movies with Burton, Richard & Taylor, Liz