Early

In morning light, betimes, I give a fuck -

A-lying, coughing, glare as clear as ice -

Can things that end still mean? Is this just luck?

No thing unlikelier than God. He'd suck

As like as be. And where's my pants? And Christ!

In morning light betimes I give a fuck.

I writhe against a twisted sheet, just stuck.

Some white or redder line, a crack or knife.

Can things that end still mean? Is this just luck?

So up again, the pit to climb for bucks.

(He's spawn to feed, you know, a wife.)

In morning light, betimes, I give a fuck.

With whom, what demon, angel, give you truck?

Oh care you with what worms your guts are rife?

Can things that end still mean? Is this just luck?

You flip the bird, but ask for hands like Puck.

Just don't expect a one to give a shite.

In morning light, betimes, I give a fuck.

Can things that end still mean? Is this just luck?