They say I write these things so fast it hurts,
Well I don’t feel a bit of pain — so there!
I’d like to see you get your just desserts,
But wonder why on earth I even care,

Considering how painlessly I purge,
And pondering the pain you’ve often claimed,
I reckon I’ll be there to hear the dirge
They play for you when you, who’ve always blamed

Each problem in between us upon me,
Arrives at death much sooner than I might,
Since all I offer you is misery,
And I get off scot-free, no end in sight.

I would that I were half as pained as you,
When painlessly I bid your ass adieu.

© A. Pope 2019

Please donate to Eden in Babylon.
A little bit goes a long, long way.