Ridin’ high on the life’s withers,
your smile plumb big as the moon;
everything comin’ up roses,
not a care in this big ol’ world.

You’re a man on a one-track mission,

Yesterdays before the morrow,
silk worm spinning ere the silk;
born the prophet, ever questioned,
gone to curd, the long churned milk.

Dogs a’ begging at the table,

Wings softer now than eiderdown
Were yesterday cold steel
Forged of hell’s own plowshares
thrust deeply into frozen stone
The angel’s vixen smile freely given

Trust not thy heart in matters of consequence,
for the heart is grand master of deception,
wherein truth lies dormant, awaiting discharge.
Speak quietly, lest thy words portend weakness,

Whither hast gone the last bloody penny
Whisked from the mouths of babes
Tears be the token, hunger the joy
Sustenance robbed by the baron of wealth
God love the poor, in hovels of hell

“Ah, hell!” The old man cursed and kicked
the tire, now gone plumb flat;
“gol’durn hoopie ain’t worth beans!”,
he turned n’ hacked, then spat.

Too many years a’ bustin’ butt,

He was an old man; finely weathered,
and walked with a bit of a limp,
favoring his right leg.
His walk was more a shuffle,
one leg, slow to catch up with the other.

In down of gosling gray, she comes,
Sweeping before her, pendulous clouds,
Enveloping, caressing, smothering;
She is the warm west wind.
Far to the west was she born,
Across the sea and beyond;

Much like a peanut butter sandwich
Love sticks, and causes a choke
Washed down with a glass of milk
The next bite does the same thing

He’s in the dark, a man with no clue

Did thou believe then
I loved thee not, lass?
Did not the circumstance of time
reveal this love which shines
from out my very soul, dear girl?

Perceive thou not this truth,

Alas, poor wretch of furrowed brow
And shoulder hunched from birth
For me, naught but the dream
Of love’s sweet embrace
The lady’s gentle touch
Her kiss upon this twisted visage

everybody has their own
private little hell
and though it differs some from yours
mine treats me just as well

It jabs me in the ribs sometimes
forbid that I forget

The last robin has gone
Overhead the barking cry of wild geese
Imparts a trembling excitement
A stirring within me
Primeval emotions
A strange mixture of disturbing feelings

I’d write thee, dear girl, a sonnet,
But fear that I know not the way;
Would’st thou take as my offer a poem then;
If I rhyme you some words on my way?

Speak softly, whispered love tones
Awaken not this sleeping brute
Whose beast-like, hairy arm encircles
‘Round about his fleshly loot

Speak softly, whisper near my bed