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 the press always handwrites its thoughtful commentary never argue with your new song, which may be armed At a party I was caught between two self-styled Buddhists who were complimenting a friend who had just died of cancer on how swiftly she had died, saying, "isn't it interesting how when you're ready you go quickly." The implication seemed to be that this person's vigil at the deathbeds of others had given her an advantage over her own death. I said, "I have bad news for both of you," and they looked at me. "Death does not wait til you're ready," I said, and they looked at each other as if to say, "this poor gal is so unenlightened." I thought later, how can I explain to these morons? Gently, mind you.

The Cruel Lullaby 7-1-01

no one will remember
when your days are done
anything you sacrificed
or anything you won
your name will mean nothing
like the life you suffered through
and people may drink from your cup
but won't remember you

no one's going to miss you
no one's going to care
it will be exactly as if
you were never there
you will be forgotten
like all riders on this bus
you will just be dust someday
with all the rest of us

go to sleep my darling
go to sleep and dream your dreams
that's the best this world can offer
this world's exactly what it seems

you may sleep and dream tonight
but you'll be dead someday
everything you leave behind
will all be swept away
anything you think you did
that mattered much at all
they'll think someone else did
or no one will recall

all of your affections might as
well have gone unshared
all the hearts you thought you broke
were easily repaired
everything you cared about
or managed to write down
will be dust like any tombstone
planted firmly in the ground

nothing else will happen when your
days have passed you by
no more lives or chances
and no mansions in the sky
nothing's going to balance
every hit with every miss
nothing's coming later that makes
up for all of this

don't look back and wonder
what else different you could do
no one will be looking back
with memories of you
count yourself real lucky
if so long is all they say
life is cold and life is hard
and then it goes away

"Art. Art. Art. If you say it enough you sound like a barking dog."
Carol Denney

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