Feeling Low

You just have to know
that I’m feeling low
when the sun won’t shine
and the stars don’t show.

When the grass is brown
and the tree is down
and the prize ain’t mine
and the circus left town.

When the beer is warm
and we’ll have a storm
and the temperature is nine
and I just can’t conform.

When there’s no place to park
except in the dark
and my bottle of wine
tastes just like bark.

I think I was made
to be always dismayed
about stuff so benign
but I ain’t afraid.

I just love to bitch
’cause it makes me feel rich
and so wonderully divine
in my own special niche.

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