Why So Sad, Mick? Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

It's not that I'm sad of my own volition,
Mick said, pouring the Guinness into a glass.
Just so many buggers posting ditties
on the joy of dying by one's own hand,
don't you see?

Celia nodded as she quaffed her ale.
'You're a wee bit too sensitive, lad!
Ignore them and their plaintive songs
of despair and dessication! Live
for and in the moment, Mick! '

You're a breath of springtime, lass,
Mick said, rising to his feet.
Let's repair to our chamber
overlooking the garden out back
and frolic the afternoon away!
Life is for living, God's gift
to us puny mortals!