We were born to fall asleep at deadly sterile parties
And cave in at the first drunken jibe thrown our way
Armed with excuses, I can't seem to make it past the beanbag chair
Later that evening, the apparatus of reason completely shuts down
Whereas a younger man would have tossed off a merry line or two
Called it putting in an appearance then gone home
I am powerless to act in the face of twelve o'clock
There is nothing here I have ever wanted
Eating standing up, cradling contempt in one hand
Paper plate in the other
Boosted by the antics of a fool
A diversion counted on
To help us escape from this illusion of a good time
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem