If I were
not so casted I’d be in a real funk
Were I a smart
crease – I’d not be in a rumpled drunk
Were I able
to comprehend
The parallel
axis theory
Then I might
possibly understand
Why the
moment of inertia is so eerie
I might also
explain why we live in the rain
And yet, never
complain about all the dry pain
Can a poet who
can no longer rhyme
Be executed
for a writing crime
Hey, you there
in the back corner
Are you here
to collect for the coroner
The covers
of darkness drape
Knotted together
like a bow tie across the nape
Tonight the
morning waits fate
All the
ghosts stayed late - for Bordeaux’s sate.
No comments:
Post a Comment