The Way

murdered in the alley of the land
frost-bitten against flagpoles
pawned by females

educated in the dark for the dark

vomiting into plugged toilets
in rented rooms full of roaches and mice

no wonder we seldom sing
day noon or night

the useless wars
the useless years
the useless loves

and they ask us,
why do you drink so much?

well, I suppose if the days were made
to be wasted
the years and the loves were made
to be wasted

we can't cry, and it helps to laugh -
it's like letting out
dreams, ideals,
poisons

don't ask us to sing,
laughing and singing to us,
you see, it is a terrible joke

Christ should have laughed on the cross,
it would have petrified his killers

now there are more killers than ever
and I write poems for them.
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Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame