DEAD-END

With my sloth I am nigh to death disgusted

and as for work I’ve never felt the love.

Oh, but to shred, rip-up, and give my blasted

aims and conditions, duties all, the shove!

To start again anew – is hopeless, frankly,

since disappointment curses all I do,

and my hand, just as soon as lifted, dankly

falls weary in my lap, without ado.

I know this: If I was now a woman,

all the world’s slobber with my cheek I’d greet

with brazen glee, and my skirts held up, bloomin’

I’d go and sell my body in the street.