All the cynics are out tonight
and their idea of a good time
is whispering doubt in my ears.
What else are they going to do
with the hours they have left
before they die?
I bite at them but they laugh:
any opposition is expected.
They are, after all, cynics.
They make my skin itch
and my throat closes up
so I can’t scream. Oh, yes,
all the cynics are out tonight.
Every last one of them.
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