A bit of an enigma,
I’d defend my mechanisms;
Though no panhandler for stigma,
I’ve put on my criticisms.
I’ve not earned all my bad-badges;
Who has, who’d brag? What-on-earth’s a clock worth!?
First years, twenty, and thirty-three!
Forty-and-so-forth from youth’s bag o’ burglaries.
Heavy enough, some, to’ve buried
Themselves by now,
Those hidden weights;
Trudged as they’ve been,
Dug-in by daily plow,
Reins ever-hard at the waist…
I’ve wished, at times, to’ve lost half I’ve chased,
But what a waste to’ve missed the good!
Ah, and how goldenly good the good has been:
I’d still be me were it left to waking again.
Life’s a rake—and she’s squirrelly
(So I’ve buckled-in a few cynicisms);
Still, hope-polished am I to pearly
By many mundane cataclysms.
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