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"A sad fact of the world is that almost nobody chooses what they get paid for."

Count Off

 I shall paint seven blisters in seven fingers

A scar for every hour badly spent:

At morning six, I sang outside the showers

At eight, I played with witches in my tent.


Ten was when I played for silver instead of gold

Twelve was when I tried again

At one, I listened to boring counsels of old

Then three, I laughed along with other men.


But nothing compares to seven o’clock

The longest blister from tip to chest

For in this hour I squandered a lot

Seven miles of blood red zest


One, I offered my heart to a wedded man

Two, threw broken vases at my mates

Three, I swallowed some of Sandman’s sand

Four, tossed my puppy and closed the gates

Five, I chose grey numbers over color

Six, I killed my pure-stained second father

Then seven, worst of all things asunder,

I rained salt on my little black sweater.


I count off: one, two, three,

Three more hours to badly spend

And once I cut my ten fingers free

I’ll wait for the ones heaven should’ve sent

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