Bugs on the Panes

Looking at the clouds

and the bugs on the window-shrouds;

there's a bug without and a bug within,

chewing at my will-to-win.

Being bored and sick and tired of being dumped

has turned me into an earlier aging grump.

Paradise is not on the horizon for me to see,

just seems like it's on the other side of a wall to thick to be.

What has built up all this edifice

of universal obstruction

and untogetherness?

Who has got the frequency of my frustration

Who has got the dope on me

Who has bugged me to infinity

©4/15/96

Captain Cal