Telemarketers, and Fingers In A Knot

In "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues", Bob Dylan Writes about how he cannot move, That his fingers are "all tied in a knot", Which for some reason is a condition I recognize these days Because I so often suffer from it. All my illnesses and symptoms conspire To make me constantly aflutter, my gait hobbled, One hand always resting on the walking stick, Trying to figure out how to carry things through doorways And yet be able to also open and close the doors... I am always fumbling with my pill bottles To such an extent That while handling one of them okay I knock another one over. If I don't knock over what I intend to manipulate, I knock something else down and end unmanned. Anything that falls always falls to the goddamn floor. Now I need THAT, so I have to retrieve it, Except I can't bend down quite that low without agony, So I have to go get the grabber that, Like my cane, I bought at WalMart's cripple counter. I shower, dress, count out the pills, And am already tired each morning Before I can exit the bedroom and get to the kitchen. Life is hell, unless you somehow like this sort of thing, Always being awkward, askance, anemic, Tired and falling down before the beginning And as mad as hell at everyone And at yourself that you can't do any better. Then maybe the phone rings and I rush to answer it And can't believe how often it's mere jerkoff junk-call, A recording that's horrible and probably illegal-- Why won't telemarketers ever Die? (is there no God?)-- But more than that, it's all so savagely misleading For people like me who are sick and can't really hurry. Nonetheless, I keep trying--it's force of habit. If I ever can, I'm going to stop answering the goddamn telephone. Things get kinky. Things get weird. And ridiculous concepts of decency and dignity Aren't going to make it ever stop. Might as well try to bring back the forties.