You think you can fool me

with a day right out of the Pastoral Symphony,
and a wife who is better than I deserve,
and a surfeit of glorious food,
and the fellowship of countless people
of gentle good will and friendly disposition,
but I'm too fast for you.
The nicer you make it for me, the more
I'll prove you wrong.
I'll let in all the midnight thoughts, latent
fears, babbling nonsense,
and bad drama I damned well want to.
You think you can make me forget who I am
by making my life blessed every day?
HA!
I earned it, pal!
You're trying to make me finally take that
barbed wire shirt off, the one that represents,
to an audience of exactly one,
all of my mundane, utterly ordinary suffering,
so I can be a Happy Idiot and enjoy
what 99.9% of the rest of the world
doesn't get to have.
You think you're so smart,
you think you're going to get me
to put down that globe,
accept what I can't change,
take those nails out of my hands, and
stop starring in my own (long-running)
version of Days of Our Lives.
You even want to take away
the most real satisfaction
I have, which is the fact that you will
never, ever make me look only at what's
in front of me
and love only that
and revel only in that
and be at peace, if only for a while,
only with that.
Well, I'll show you!
I'll show...you...
I'll...