Poor Thing. To Die And Never See

Oh Thumb, I Want A Drink It Is Dark, Where Are The Big People, When Will I Get There...?

Our Children Tremble In Their Teen-age Cribs, Whirling Off On A Thumb Or A Motorcycle.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.

Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of The Poem.