When, in disgust with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone berate my aching pate,
And trouble deaf woodwork with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate.
When this one's a clod and this one's a dope,
A scalawag, a nincompoop, a tart,
When pimps are praised and whores are full of hope,
And all high thought is edifice and art,
Then in these thoughts my mind as black as night,
I bang my fist and rail against the grey,
(though silently for fear might children fright;
Or solid men in coats might take me away)
What good is rage the only wealth it brings;
Destruction, sorrow, cabbages and kings.
I rewrote it some.