NEXT
5 days ago
1 min read
By Glenn Doherty
I’ve lost it—the will.
No, not to live—no, not that.
I keep that under my hat.
It’s the job. The nine to five.
Head after head.
Every day, the same ballet:
I don’t talk no more,
point to the chair,
tie the cape tight
at the nape of their neck,
hoping it might shut ’em up—
no luck.
Every story worth a thousand cuts.
When I’m near the ears,
every accident planned with a steady hand.
I’m a danger, a threat.
That’s it—my last trim.
Alright, go on then,
I’ll squeeze you in.