The Humid Winter

I called upon a scratchy nerve,
To help me drain the ink reserve,
Inside a plastic pen.
With dullfull wit,
The pen it spit,
A poem of useless men.
Or man – that’s me,
Tonight – you see,
I called ’round half past ten.
But I don’t care,
This paper’s bare,
Like a grizzly’s summer den.

~ and on.

Oh, go away to summer’s day,
When life is always warm,
Trudging time is what I pay,
For holding life in scorn,
So when I plan to ride away,
With leather full of gold,
Remember that we had today,
Though it’s better when we’re old.

~ and on.

These times the sky’s no sun to tote,
No heat in times of null,
A hit of whisky roasts the throat,
Of bitter cold’s old dull.
A rush of pride goes out the head,
Now lighter than a star,
Imagine people in your bed,
Damn, where the hell’s my car?
I’m drunker than a stranded bird,
You’re still all gross to me,
I wouldn’t do you even blurred,
Now where the hell’s my key?
Oh, man you all are coming near,
Leave me now I swear!
This night should not have been King Lear,
Fuck this isn’t fair.

I hate the bloody sheep!

This is why I have few friends,
But the ones I have I love,
You mean so much you silly friends,
To be fair I’ll match love with love.

~ and on.

Goodnight.