The Unhappy Few

Most of us spend most of our lives Climbing in and out of wombs, Bitching about bad coffee and too wet Martinis. Most of us lust for, more than love, Our wives, waitresses, and celluloid sirens.

But a few seem to move to the total horror Of ennui, to wake tired at morning, To be glad to face another alley, rather Than to go on for another hour with the sheets, Fighting the nightmares that gang up.

Those few are real and positive. They know What misery and terror really are. They're usually the very last ones to bitch. They go off somewhere to drink in a bar Or cry or quietly to kill themselves.