Beneath a sharper sword of Damocles
did I anoint the same Procrustean bed.
Now every night, upon my scabby knees,
I beg to be retrieved from mounting dread.
Surrounded by the healthy heels and toes
I’ve amputated from my heedless guests,
I cry, “Remorse!” because I’ve always known
the end is near – but God is not impressed.
I pray as if I truly want to change,
and act as if I never plan to stop.
Thus my behavior isn’t really strange,
And I’ve a name or two that I can drop
to junior prosecutors: safe today -
but soon enough there will be hell to pay.