I can’t do anything right
I can’t write and I can’t play
I’m probably a terrible lay
nobody believes what I say
I’m a miserable failure in every way
what’s left?
Excuse me
I’m feeling sorry for myself
women love me at first
but when they really get to know me
my sense of humor wears thin as a membrane
and they chafe at buying my cigarettes
Like I said,
I’m feeling sorry for myself.
you don’t want to invite anybody
to your pity party. No, it’s a banquet in solitaire
a prom without dancing, eucharist unshared
a slim occasion better done
sans invitations
I would invite you to my pity party
but I want to eat all the cake
drink the whole bar out,
waltz with myself until dawn,
cry and wonder where I lost the night
but I can’t do anything right.
What’s left?
Oh, I’ve tried that
got a hickey heavy petting with a noose
hated life but couldn’t turn it loose
because I was in the mood for a party
not sipping tea, no quiet cotillion
but a hang-from-the-rafters,
one in a million party
a custom party, not off-the-shelf
the kind of party I’d
have to call the cops on myself
My pity party will be the the toast of the season
the event of the year, no, the bash of the century
I’m sorry as hell that you couldn’t be here
for the caviar of my insecurity and the champaign of my fear
but I’ll send pictures, my dear
Did I mention that
I was feeling sorry for myself?
Even that I can’t get right. I was
top-of-the world by the end of the night
Had a great time!
It was swell! It was super!
Sorry I had to be the pity party pooper.
