Alas, that I ever was born.
(It’s too cruel, that’s what it is. It isn’t
right. There’s no justice in it, and I’m
sick of it, that’s what I am.)
O sorrow too deep to utter!
O midnight hour of the soul!
If there only were bread and butter,
Or something warm in a bowl,—
(I don’t care what. I’m so sick of raw
fish, I believe I could even stand stewed