Vesuvius?
A rude eruction
and it follows
(by history
and induction)
that nothing’s really been
that bad; you’re simply spoiled.
Be glad.
The world is all;
you’re puny-small.
The world is broke;
you’re Diet Coke.
The world is hopeless,
and you are copless.
Every poem that makes you depressed
Has reached into your mind (recessed!)
and (consider yourself blessed!)
smashed the illusion you’ve been happinessed.
All is horror. But that’s fine.
Believe in yourself?
No. Don’t crosee that line.
You’re here to suffer, and that’s fine.
And someday, Satan will say,
“God, I love your sugary spine.”
