When I come back I might be angry,
filled with pent-up bile and spleen.
So crass, so caustic and so toxic
that you’ll find me naught but mean.
When I come back, I might be strident,
leaning hard to left or right.
A poli sci geek on vendetta,
looking for excuse to fight.
When I come back, I might be gentle,
softened by my time away.
Gosh, I want you all to like me,
tell me what I need to say!
When I come back, I might be funny,
spinning webs of charming wit.
So glib! So mirthful! And so clever!
[insert word that rhymes with “shit”]
When I come back, I might be crazy,
stoked on booze or bathtub crank.
Free association zany,
live from down the drunky tank.
When I come back, I might just come back,
as I was before I went.
I might not tell you what I did,
or who I saw, or what I spent.
When I come back, I’ll want to be here,
which was not the case back when.
When I come back, I’ll likely stay here,
’til I want to leave again . . .