The whiskey's not working
and lately neither am I
rising to face another dawn
at high noon I'll dive
face first into my rich portrait
of abundant malaise and crow
to all those unfortunate few
in the vicinity my daily bellows
of significant trifles, so pleased
at all my accomplishments
fully bereft of critics and patrons
the tortured artist is the role
I was born to play
desolation envelops as a wind
blowing out the match flame
before the next Marlboro red
today is my epiphany
since I've discovered my occupation
is actually charlatanism
I begrudgingly log on to monster.com
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