I threw a party: no one came,
I wrote a book which no one read,
No friend or lover called my name,
And no one hearkened what I said.
I lived my life in garret rooms,
And looked down from the thirteenth floor
At worker ants and concrete tombs,
But no one smote upon my door.
Strife and toil lined my meagre nest,
The sylphs they proferred me were vile,
My finest spoils were second best,
While others holidayed in style.
I worked for peanuts like a slave,
Dead end job in a stinking hole,
The only choice they ever gave
Was hard work or rot on the dole.
I stared with envious eyes at those
Who lived life on the other side,
Drove big cars, wore expensive clothes,
Laughed and smiled while I only cried.
I died in poverty alone,
My neighbours never knew my name,
And when they laid to rest my bones
No mourners left, for no one came.
[Originally published in VIRIDIAN.]
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