When like a man too much in love I cage what I could freely have
When like a lord of industry I mash and scorch organic clay
When like a rock percussionist I shutter out the singing past
When like a wealthy socialist I meet the world with frigid taste
When like some amateur of crime I pirouette above a tomb
When like an expert on the arts I lecture on exploded guts
When like a writer for the stage I seethe to castigate and purge
When like a man without desire I gaze on vistas chill and bare
Those are a few of the better days, actually.