No more do I fall, to pity’s opening,
For one who sees die, then buries, his offspring;
—How much, in reality, can it hurt,
Or create confusion? (He did pro-create,
And knows he can repeat at a later date;)
While, each day existing in my unsure state
Feels like, in my face,

dirt;
 
 

No more into pity do I now descend
When one sees perish, and buries, his girlfriend;
(—She chose not, after all, to just desert,
While my just desserts are not so merry,)
In his mind, too, he can her then bury,
As he did so in the cemetery,
His life (in return’s hope) then not so stationary,
His clean break not like this

dirt;
 
 

No more in that pity do I now reside
When one sees deceased, and buried, even his bride;
—Not ceased also is his cert-
ainty she is gone, while I must still obsess
About my lover at another man’s address;
(And where’s my pity?—my widower’s stress
Is not my choice, nor did I transgress,
Nor does its earlier start make its hurt any less;
—Single has singe in it, despite their coldness;)
Their apathy doubles my pressure—sending it to di-stress,
—To my pride, still more and more

dirt;

 So, no more do I dwell in that pit’s girth
For one who himself has died, and is buried in the earth,
Rather than has not, and is buried in the earth’s doubt;
—In the earth’s depression—that low, low dive,
And the dirt the earth always then will drive,
(Their foul dumping, ditch-ing, as they deprive,
Their turning down, and unclean  indifference that will derive,
That some impure boss did for sure contrive;)
I don’t feel pit-y for those who do not survive,
For, when you are (pitifully) not any longer alive,
You don’t, pitiful, try to
climb
your
way

out.