that’s why funerals are so sad by Charles Bukowski

he’s got all the tools but he’s lazy, has no
fire, the ladies drain his senses, his
emotions, he just wants to drive his
flashy car
he gets a wax job once a month
throws away his shoes when they get
scuffed
but
he’s got the best right hand in the
business
and his left hook can cave in a man’s ribs
if I can get him to do it
but
he has no god damned imagination
he’s in the top ten
but the music is missing.
he makes the money
but it’s all going to get away from
him.
some day he’s not going to be able to do
even the little
he’s doing now.
his idea of victory is to pull down as
many women’s panties as he
can.
he’s
champ at that.
and when you see me screaming at him
in his corner between
round
I’m trying to awaken him to the fact that
the TIME is
NOW.
he just grins at me:
“hell, you fight him, he’s a
bitch…”

you have no idea cousin, how many
men
can do it
but
won’t.

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