What's Right Is Easy

I'm decked out like a fucking Christmas tree,
With red lights on my forehead, mostly lit
(The way I was when I agreed to it),
And strings of popcorn hung all over me,
With angels, and a goddamn bumblebee
Stuck on my shoulder, and some other shit
I don't have names for. There's a little bit
Of treacle on my cheek, that I can't see.

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
I sway in windless calm, devout, irate,
Pretending that I chose not to go straight
In protest at this crooked world. What's right
Is easy: I shall wait here half the night
And then impale myself upon the gate.