thursday's child has far to go
not fair of face, nor full of grace
this creature full of woe
it hides its tears and fades its fears
sticking close to pain it knows
being endlessly loving and giving
is how this one works hard for a living
and one wants for wonts, to gets to be gone
with perfect parties and pities to throw
bonny? perhaps - only blithe in drabbest weakness
she's never good. she's inconsequentially gay.
she's vapid and vulgar and lacking of sparkle
she never has anything useful to say
nobody's child nicks his knee on a splinter
nobody's child finds a knife good company
nobody's child places their wounds on a pedestal
nobody's child wants to be something to see
nobody's child wants to fit and be fixed
wants manifest bruised from stones and sticks
nobody's child wants a token of worth
to stick his head in the sand, his face in the dirt
and if it's currency you want, you're here and now, so that's what you get
you want someone to lay you a blanket - well here's the news: you're wet
you should wash away, and crumble to nothing
all these falsest pinky promises you're puffing
you want to be good
you want to be fine
you're a quarter-century old, not young for cherry wine
you're nobody's baby because you're not a baby at all
you want to stand on your own two legs, thinking you shouldn't have to fall
we all fall, my child
we all fall and bleed
we all bleed ourselves out
we all fall down
fair of a face is a skin you put on
so you can elide yourself full of grace
take your woe and, if you please, stuff it
you're not disappearing without a trace
everybody's lying and everybody sucks
this is your suffering; this is your muck
so if you'll tell me, as the termites brush your knees
just what it is a tortured soul sees?
that we all don't, we can't, we won't
(you think you're the only one, but if it were true, you'd never believe it, and really see it done)
your stomach's no sicker. we all have to cough.
my skin's no thicker. we all pull it off.
peel past your eyes to get to your mind and pinch out that worm that lives deep inside, that tells you you're special because nothing's new and because nobody's here to tell you love's view. it's not coming. it's not going. out the window - i'm not snowing.
forget loving and giving. forget working for a living.
(forget going, and coming, and bleeding, and shivving)
you're alive. that's enough. forget all this "poor is me" snuff.