The Joy of Misery

The Desperate Man by Gustave Courbet

The Joy of Misery

On some days, or so it would seem,
All the world can do is complain
At the lateness of the train,
Or persistence of the rain,
Or the throbbing of the pain,
Or the losings of the team.

Living is a thankless task
I know, cos whingers tell me so –
The world conspires to bring them woe.
A captive ear is all they ask
And selflessly, they moan for free,
Afraid they might miss out on misery.

A very-public service from each self-appointed martyr
And dammit !, now I’ve gone and joined their ranks !
Carping about carpers when I thought I was much smarter,
I thought myself the sharper who was winding-up the cranks !
Oh Irony, you tricked my brain –
But dammit, there I go again !

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