I am a man without a hill
To walk my dog, Bill, up—that’s nil!
For Bill a hill would be a thrill.
Life ain’t fair, so, ill, I trill:

Doggone unmerry are we as high-priced trucks ferry,
Slog on. It’s scary to walk these streets, auto-harried.

Averse to each hearse and worse that goes by,
I’m like a ready-to-blow high-
Explosive device whose fuse is getting short.
I’m Sam Jackson with atom-bomb retort.*

Doggone unmerry am I; the level is “very.”
Guns from ferriers are what I wish I would ferry.

I am cultivating anger. . .
Like I have a white-hot doppelganger:
Pistol-packing Cagney, words hurled:
“I made it ma, top o’ the world!!”**

Cagney (sans Lacey) runs up the catwalk, acts crazy.
Catwalking James, he shoots a gas tank. . .up in flames he.

But the world down here is cruel, without pit-
y. Will it improve? I doubt it!
Though I’m pissed, I stay mute, subdued.
But I’m really in a bad mood.

Doggone unmerry am I and say something very
Bad as cars ferry folks; I’ve no joint to un-care me.

There’s so many hills dotting this earth,
But for Bill and I to walk, there’s a dearth.
Sierra ain’t what we require. . .
To mere mound, not mountain, aspire.

Doggone unmerry am I; there’s no hills; it’s scary.
Dog’s gone right where we stand; pee pools. . .flat as a prairie.


*“I’m an mushroom-cloud-laying MF.”
**Last line of “White Heat”