In my youth I had better things to say
Though nothing else has compared
To the wisdom coming in old age
However many I stand to write
My free poetry is left unpaid
Until, of course, a later date
In which case I’m hoping
You won’t so readily take the bait
Of all my better lines placed in prose
The pros and cons won’t stop the stooping
Of such dire straights meeting troublesome lows
Here we are, finally out of the funk
Goddamn that Shit was bunk
Although fearfully we’ve shrunk and shied away
Shielding ourselves from the junk those junkies
Love to sling or carefully say
And I’m missing you;
Your arms how they protect
From all the vengeful neglect
The travesties for which I subject
An open heart, so carelessly hollow
And baby I’m hoping;
I’ll soon hear your voice,


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