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