Sorry, I can’t Help You

Robbed of laughter from a pounding thief,

whose only prize is to see me doubled over

with my palms pressed against my eyes.

Anything to help alleviate the pain.

Still having a voice yet feeling voiceless.

Each increasing octave is like an assault

against the brain: crack, thud, bang!

No more drunken stages,

15 minutes of Friday fame,

my carpool catharsis has ceased.

Let’s not forget basic bodily functions, no!

There’s the buckshot cough,

The suicide sneeze,

And the triple crown champion of cranial hell:

Taking a shit.

Left in the waiting room.

Please keep the lights off

and the music low.

Kenny G gives me a fucking headache.

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