Out of sorts?, you ask. Oh, you don't know the half of it.
My son is getting divorced. He used to live here. Now, he
And his (soon-to-be) ex dash out at all hours with pieces
Of furniture. The wife's on the warpath for some god-damned
Reason, objecting to everything under the sun. My car isn't
Working. My wrists and feet hurt. I'll go back in the morning
To face Mr. Stupid, a cracker from Wahoo who never shuts up.
I'm short of breath, lacking in faith for the future, and all
Of the pleasure I knew in the past is erased. I don't recollect
Having much fun. Look at me. Don't I seem colorless, ghastly,
Somebody who's out of sorts?