I’ll suffer with you tomorrow,
And we can gnash our teeth and yell.
Nay, talk ye not of your sorrow,
For it’s rare that I feel this well.

Keep your burning and your brimstone,
And maybe next week I’ll join you.
But for now the tormentor’s gone,
And a cold breeze is slipping through.

I think I’ll take advantage of
Providence to wet my whistle.
Maybe I’ll even find a love
Who’s not gnawed down to the gristle.

Don’t think I’ll sit on my fanny,
The victim of my own fear’s spell,
For there are only so many
Of these rare, wintry days in hell.