Produce, Perform, make us Proud
(tho not so crudely said aloud).
I, meek and ground to dust by shame,
have no idea to acquire such fame.
I work (a slave in truth to whims
of all those brazen hers and hims),
and cry all night instead of dreaming.
No good am I at plots and scheming.
I wish to die, to hide in sleep.
I wish to make a violent leap.
I wish, my will free and clear;
I wish to be my own career.