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The Grouch

From The Seattle Star, September 20, 1913. By Berton Braley.

The world’s a rotten hole,
It is, upon my soul,
    No place to live in;
There’s no one on the square
And people everywhere
    By greed are driven.
I haven’t any vim or real ambition
And all my plans are going to perdition.

The weather’s on the bum,
The future’s looking glum,
    Fate crowds and shoves me.
A pall of gloom descends,
I haven’t any friends,
    Nobody loves me.
If some one said, “Cheer up,”—well, I’d waylay him
And grab a heavy bludgeon—and I’d slay him!

The cheerfullest of men
Gets like this, now and then,
    And bile and choler
When life just makes him sore,
And he will kick and roar,
    And swear and holler;
So let me rage and snort with temper fearful,
And when the fit is over I’ll be cheerful.

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