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 scott-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
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