You tell me I’m no fun,
But I think I’ve overdosed on it:
Years spent laughing, joking;
Often feeling none of it.
You tell me I should talk some more,
But what have I to say?
Nothing you would like to hear,
So I think it best I stay away.
You tell me there’s a world out there;
Well, what is that to me?
I am not you, my dear,
Nor will I ever be.
You suggest I should be happy,
That to speak to me you deign;
But if we’re to talk about the weather,
I think I’d rather speak of rain.
Read —Writer in Retrospect
