This little bourgeois runt has had enough
of feeling weak. He's running five miles a
day, eating raw eggs, seeing three shrinks,
shagging his wife most nights, loving his
kids, digging into his work like never before
(and oh what important work it is), and, if
he may say so himself, become such a lunatic
that if they have to scrape his remains from
the bottom of the Schuylkill, he won't be
surprised. All to rebel against impinging
poverty, because the world is crumbling.
Not with a bang but with a whimper, he
gulps down a beer with dinner, where he
preened and postured like a winner with
everything knotted in his stomach. If he
were raised to be rugged, he'd still be dead.