Samuel Beckett, Engame
Can I wring a poem out of my rag of grief?
Old stauncher, I’ll call it:
Why must I always be the thief?
How can I hold a brief
for any of the cards that're in my wallet?—
they’re just part of my rag of grief.
Always hoping to get some relief,
even though I can’t go along a watchtower:
Why must I always be the thief?
Thinking just now of my dead friend Steve—
he didn’t like Bob or want to sing like him.
Steve's death is a big part of my rag of grief.
His singing was beyond belief—
no PA, with two guitars and a drum set,
a lot of southern-boy grief
in his Indiana voice—
electrical impulses, neurolinguistics—
nerve-greased songs wrung out of his rag of grief:
Why must I always be the thief?
