The Helpful Thought For Which

There Was A Young Lady Named Mae Who Smoked Without Stopping All Day; As Pack Followed Pack, Her Lungs First Turned Black, And Eventually Rotted Away.

The Suicide, As She Is Falling, Illuminated By The Moon, Regrets Her Act, And Finds Appalling The Thought She Will Be Dead So Soon.

Neither Mine Nor Other People's Prospects Seem Particularly Pleasing Just At The Moment, And I Have Fantasies Of Going To Iceland, Never To Return. As It Is, I Tell Myself Not To Remember The Past, Not To Hope Or Fear For The Future, And Not To Think In The Present, A Comprehensive Program That Will Undoubtedly Have Very Little Success.

Z Is For Zillah Who Drank Too Much Gin.

I Don't Think Anything Might Have Been. What Is, Is.