You’re born and you’re ******;

and some little **** who’s an inch and a half taller than you wants your toy truck and you’re ******;

and here comes puberty and, man, talk about ****** ...

and a thousand luscious nymphs dazzle you from magazine covers and pick your pocket and you’re ******;

and you go to college and you major in history you idiot and you’re ******;

and you fall out of lock step and you’re ******;

and you make the mistake of going out walking on the street at night and a couple of predators nudge each other and smirk “Heyyyy – mug meat!” and you’re ******

and you waste yourself working for nothing but weekends and paydays and one morning you forget to smile at your boss and you’re ******;

and the years slam shut behind you and you’re ******;

and your wife wants a divorce the house the kids the car and two thirds of your salary forever and you’re ******;

and your big ideas end up in a drawer full of cancelled checks and you’re ******;

and your doctor says I’m afraid I have some bad news and you’re ******;

and they stick you with needles and tubes and people talk in whispers when they come into your room but you know that what they’re saying is you’re ******.










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Copyr­­­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com