I'm the uncrowned king of the insomniacs
Who still fights his ghosts with a sword,
A student of ceilings and closed doors
Making bets two plus two is not always four
A merry old soul playing the accordion
On the graveyard shift in the morgue.
A fly escaped from a head of a madman,
Taking a rest on the wall next to his head.
Descendent of village priests and blacksmiths:
A grudging stage assistant of two
Renowned and invisible master illusionists,
One called God, the other Devil, assuming, of course,
I'm the person I represent myself to be.
- Charles Simic
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