Cynic's Blues Poem by David Welch

My best friend got a girlfriend,
covered in tattoos,
kept saying she was ‘the one, '
his lover, faithful and true.
I said not to rush in fast,
to look for skeletons,
he snarled and told me off,
then married that young thing.
Within a year she'd cheated
more than a dozen times,
one day my friend said to me:
"The baby can't be mine."
Now he no longer talks to me,
or goes for a drink at night.
I think he resents me for
the fact that I was right.
I sure do miss hanging out,
but after what she put him through
I know I was right to try…
Damn these cynic's blues.

My sister went to college,
and studied ‘History of Queer.'
I remarked "with that degree,
you're not going anywhere."
She got mad, called me names,
said that I hated folks gay,
ignored me when I pointed out
that such degrees don't pay.
In fact she ignored anything
not fitting with her worldview,
she went ahead and studied,
followed it on through.
When she got out in the world
expecting six figures,
a clerk job at a bookstore
was the best available to her.
Now she lives in my attic,
poor and angry, she fumes,
no good saying, "I told you so, "
man, I hate these cynic's blues.

Had myself a lover once,
she called me cynic all the time.
Told her I was a pragmatist,
but that truth she didn't buy.
Then came an election,
and we pulled for different teams.
I told her that the patterns said
my man would be winning.
She smiled at me in pity,
and pointed to the latest polls,
said I would feel darn foolish
when the story was all told.
Come election day she stared,
tearing up in disbelief,
and rather than admit loss
she up and walked out on me.
I'll really miss the sex though,
that sounds harsh, but it's true.
I suppose we never were a fit,
you can thank the cynic's blues.