Lucky

I’ve lost the last of my autonomy,
Which you will notice if you light the lamp
And watch me dancing: I can twirl and stamp,
Reminding you of the taxonomy
Of horses and horse-ploughed agronomy,
But suddenly I’ll bend over with cramp,
Succumbing to the silence and the damp,
And losing what’s left of my bonhomie.

Having been branded as a hopeless case,
I start each morning searching for lost hope
With nothing but dread and a telescope.
The losses mount, the truth is on my face:
I’ve been abandoned by fortune and grace,
Lucky to be merely a misanthrope.