by Dorothy Parker
I do not like my state of mind
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I have to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk,
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type,
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty breasted.
I am not sick, I am not well,
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men …..
I’m due to fall in love again.