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Updated: May 7

5:56… 6… 6…

5:57… 7… 7…

5:58… 5:59… 6 a.m.

The alarm blares. Dan get’s up. Combs his hair;

a sharped dressed fella to catch the train.

No time for an umbrella despite the rain.

Clock-in at work. Earn that 401k.

Collapse into bed after a long hard day.

5:56… 6… 6…

5:57… 7… 7…

5:58… 5:59… UP! UP! UP! Time to get UP!

The alarm blares. He combs his hair. Smokes a cig.

Wolfs his breakfast down. Come on over and see Dan’s gig,

the most established trapeze artist in town.

Today’s act includes remembering his son’s soccer practice —

gotta make up for the ones he missed.

Maybe make his daughter’s recital too, he’ll hope, but nope!

Only one will do. Collapse into bed. The day is through.

5:58… 8… 8…

5:59… 9… 9…

6 a.m.

No alarm this morn’s heard;

Sally’s been up all night.

She does another bump

To feel a sense of norm.

To deal with the absurd

Demands of the Red-Light

District and her strict pimp

who’ll be by this afternoon,

So she better get that bread —

Or she’d be better off dead —

And get it soon!

5:58… 8… 8…

5:59… 9… — or does that 9 still look like an 8?

Oh wait, NOW it’s 6p.m. —

The only alarm’s raised

By Chuck’s poor liver;

His eyes’re glazed and sunk in their sockets,

his fork hardly touching his pork

as he sips a pint from his pocket

Down at the local diner.

Drunken Chuck’s

Been down-on-his-luck

But, never much of a whiner,

Hasn’t told a soul yet

He was laid-off last week.

Another shot, another shot, another shot

To forget. To hell with his mortgage.

To hell with his marriage. The future’s lookin’ bleak.

Where’s my revolver, he thinks.

I need a SHOT.

Commercials in time’s

Our sad, sad comedy,

We troupe of mimes

Tired of the main program’s


Soon its curtains fall,

And wiping paint off our face,

We’ll forget our shtick and all

For Death’s cold embrace.

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