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| Charles Bukowski |
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| Some People | ||||
| some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I´ll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they´ll find me there. it´s Cherub, they´ll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I´ll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I´ll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must lead. |
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