Shoot then! I clench my toothpick.
I’ve yet to be seen concerned
with a cutting. Sick to the heart, before the angels of God.
It is my good friend, at the most, slacking.
I am pleased to see his back turned
knowing what I’ve done! It is personally hard.
The rubber is off. In his rarest times sometimes
the wittle ones sweat, & did sickly things;
still he was clad.
My friends,—black with a sigh—, goodbye
you all sux. Filled am I with a spirit that sings.
Wide eyes have had
all them green things.
Lush memories of a young circle, a cry,
painting the migrant heart that sort of forever
lives inside me. Happy days have turned a bore
and those ‘great colors’ have made me poor.
But I still sing!
