It didn’t happen because
She was
A prude.
“I wasn’t rude”
he thinks
As he drinks
Bitter beer alone,
His hand itching for the telephone.
Self Pity
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It didn’t happen because
She was
A prude.
“I wasn’t rude”
he thinks
As he drinks
Bitter beer alone,
His hand itching for the telephone.
The weather seems colder
As you grow older.
The chip on your shoulder
May become a boulder
Weighing you down.
Be careful lest you drown
In your overwhelming sense of wrong.
Do please change that old song
It has gone on to long.
The record is stuck
Stop wallowing in muck.
The truth is we make our own luck!