I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I
hate my hands,
I do not yearn for
lovelier lands.
I dread the dawns
recurrent light;
I hate to go at
night.
I snoot at simple,
earnest folk.
I cannot take the
gentlest joke.
I find no peace in
paint or type.
My world is but a
lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned,
empty-breasted.
For what I think,
I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am
not well.
My quondrom dreams
are shot to hell.
My sourl is crushed,
my spirit sore;
I do not like me
anymore.
I cavil, quarrel,
grumble, grouse.
I pondor on the
narrow house.
I shudder at the
thought of men....
I'm due to fall in
love again.
