The nerve of that woman
To go be happy —
Doesn’t she know
She’s single?
Living entirely her own life,
Making all her own choices
As to how to make this world
A better one,
And perfectly content —
That’s got to be an act, right?
Where I come from,
Everyone is miserable
Single, married or otherwise:
That’s how it’s supposed to be
But she’s sitting on a beach somewhere
Happily within her own thoughts
Living an independent existence
Where love is a matter of daily choice
Not ritual obligation
What’s wrong with her?
Or is there maybe
Something wrong with me?
