Bachus18 Mar 2003

Trying is for amuteurs sir, i write world class poetry as often as i break wind and pour ale to a head. last week i leaned on my right cheek in my stool to the right a bit, and this one flew out. we are all handicap in our own special ways. there is no rest for the wicked or my gift you ivory tickler you, i can't keep my hands, my lips, my mouth away from my sacred calling. the cry of a breaking warm breeze from within.