Flying in the Face.

Laughing like a fool is the only humor left me. Everything is tinged and stained in tragedy; Every drink a binge, every effort, strain. Blinking irritates, breathing needs reminding— Aching racks my disembodied brain, Passions run to hates and seeing heralds blinding. A recipe for what I know and who I am: The saddle full, the kidneys and the ham, On the rack of life, I am a Rack of Lamb.