I’m wrong.
All wrong.
--& I’ve been wrong since the beginning o’ the bomb.
«¡Ack! ¡You’re wrong!
¡Stop being so perverse & admit that everyone’s a lemon wedge on the edge o’ tea!»
But they’re wrong,
& that’s what makes them right,
for the wrongest wrong one can wreak is being right.
Look @ these black leaves strewn ‘cross
pavements oiled in acid rain,
oozing cheap mascaras cross
pimpled skid-mark-darkened f--
«¡Now stop! This imagery is too extreme;
O’ it we’re getting quite so sick. ¿Why don’t
You write ‘bout nice li’l things? Like angel cream
With golden smiles & smokeless, vacuumed ho--»
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
It’s too late to save my brain;
better the sweater is thrown ‘way
than sentenced to life in barnacles from the rain,
no matter how the mold bakes heat aches...
Now, ¿who wants heart aches?
¡Una trampa!
You won’t miss the dead leaves
when you’ve got white cream;
don’t rage @ the dying o’ the midnight,
¿all right?
But when I wished myselves goodlight,
muttering, «You’re right, you’re right...»,
sweaty-eyed, I realized
that they stabbed me with my own knife.
¡The supes in suits strike ‘gain!
¿Why?
¿Why?
¿Why?
