Monday, September 13, 2004


I long for a good short story
I stored a good long shoreman
Some stove spilt goo on Lance Sherman
Stemmed spores long for lamb shanks to mend
Oh to mend/oh to mend/ode to men
I have quality time
And it's no crime to rhyme about
Sailors and saints and the Poles with their paints
From their rituals
There is a freedom to riding without a helmet
To hell with it
Oh now, to hell with it

The dance lessons didn't take. All you ever say is "envelope".

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