You feel that world outside the skin
rising, rising, like a mountain,
to keep you down?
The child in man knows what to do:
lie in bed and dream it through—
it’s a pleasure to be sick.

That girl you love, loves another?
Don’t feel guilty, go to mother.
She’ll be glad to have you.
It’s dark and dull, but soft in there,
with only birth and death to fear.
It’s such a pleasure to be sick.

But what of those who do lie down
too long to laugh or call it fun,
and no one can arouse?
They see the whole world wearing black
and, color blind, they answer back:
it’s a pleasure to be sick.

Most men exult in what they’ve done,
wearing achievement like a sun
that pulls the world to them.
But those who refuse to work for love
(afraid they’ll never earn enough)
have gray haired hearts and cry, Unfair!
and woo the world with their despair.
It’s their pleasure to be sick.

1953