Wishful Thinking

I wish I were dead.    
I wish I had a gun,                  
                        so I can put it                               
                                            to my head.                       
                            And move my finger.                            
                                    And pull the trigger.                               
                                            And die lying                                       
                                                           in my bed.   
Oh, how I wish I were dead.       
      How I wish I were dead.     

I wish I could eat crud.            
             And wallow alone in the mud.                
                     Washing up in the blackened suds of earth, 

                                                  in the aftermath of a sudden flood.