SUBJECT>Riff 29.1 POSTER>David Halitsky EMAIL>dhalitsky@cumulativeinquiry.com DATE>1112383782 IP_ADDRESS>adsl-32-192-223.bgk.bellsouth.net PASSWORD>aa2CpqTRwrBWA PREVIOUS> NEXT> 85753 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Riff 29.1

You know that I will endlessly fuck-up,
that I cannot control my tendency
to piss-off those who, willing to suck-up,
will keep me down by their ascendancy.
And yet you stay, a Constance Bonacieux
supportive of her reckless D'Artagnan,
with full foreknowledge you must bid adieu
to all that you had set your hopes upon.

But though I know Milady Fortune will
hold you accountable, more so than me,
for all that I will not put in the till,
I hoard your riches in my poverty.
How can it be that you do not grow wroth,
when what you tread on is the plainest cloth?

Sonnet 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.