It's back, the sun reared up it's ugly mug,
I'm glad, to think of grass, layed out on.
The park, a tempting Siren, pushing me
unto to its guilty laze, bringing me forth
with Brecht and wine, not to forget Saint tobacco,
lest me forget that supple ill,
the spot is taken, half fufilled, I drop,
gangly, gulping from tasty, bloody milk.
I drift to sounds, for never is there silence,
I hear the soul beating, swelling with the
river's call, decked out layed, dreaming,
deafening myself with dapple,
dervishing thought, inhaling praising Raleigh,
slobbering over the early psalms of Brecht.
I am content. Oh indeed I am content.

Almost now I am fulfilled.

But grunting guilt, bites me right about the ass, emptying my
Merlot, of Chilean descent, I seek to stoat back,
I feel a little lost knowing you're stuck in that
place, that work. But you gotta feed
the monkey, and tomorow I shall too.
Yes I do believe tomorrow, that I shall have to too.

H.Math