Feelings well up and reel to your face as you sit on that bench.

What the fuck do you have to do to get recognition when you have no voice?

What does it matter for the rank on your chest, held in prominence by none, but you?

Tobacco in all its forms helps, but will eventually make you sick of it all even more.

Oh, fat captain, what do you think of this?

Oh, fat captain, what will become of this?

Things seem (and are) at their worst before the sun rises high enough to sweat you dead.

You will pray to God on high, but is He there- does He even care?

Quaking inside of yourself time and again, and (!) pulling through in the end.

It's what they expect, that thing branded and welded into your brain over and over again.

Oh, fat captain, what do you think of this?

Oh, fat captain, what, honestly, will become of this?

It's much better alone in quiet, serene, silence after the pain.

The water laps at your heels; the heat is healing you time and again as the pills do.

Read yourself away from it, but only for an undetermined 18 to 23 minutes.

Back at it again before you know it; look at yourself in the mirror and see through it.

Oh, fat captain, what do you think of this?

Oh, fat captain, what will become of this?

Here and there again; many of these days are the same.

Why do we do what we do again and never before?

You will look at the sky and remember nothing from before though you can try.

It's the same time and again, growing old beneath this sun in the heavens above.

Oh, fat captain, what do you think of it all?

Oh, my captain, do you think we're heading toward a fall?

© S. I. Mette

20100910