One grows sick of one’s betters being
Sick of themselves, inferiority being
An inverse of humility; I have enough
Of my own sickness in me
To wish sometimes that Church and State
Would cease to bicker and equivocate,
Though I would hate that too;
Please don’t tell me what to do,
But only tell that somewhere, even if
Too distant there dwells a power
Or a tree who might truly say
Just what is to become of me.
Some of us wish we were not bad
And others that we were badder still,
Some to get away scot-free and some
For whom punishment is the thrill;
Me, I wish for cold clear water where
I can dive and swim and drink my fill.
I sit and in the sun I pray
For such a sea:
There’s few other ways I’ve found
To make it through a single day.