| Chalk scrapes on the blackish board and so
There are assessments and appraisals.
I am a marionette with a head of maggots—
Folks just want to see me dance over the flaming sun.
No more clubhouses for me:
I’ve got work and my skin is sandpaper.
My teeth rot from the cigars
I’ve smoked over busy proposals.
When will they give me my gold coin?
I don’t know who that is in the mirror,
And they ask me to come to church
But the oil’s burning and there’s not much left
Of time and my forehead aches to dry
All my youths I haven’t kept under umbrellas.