To the best of my ability
I've decided to let the poet live on
in works.
Giving speeches to crowds
that seemed less and less impressed
as each night progressed
Publishing books and signing autographs
for anyone still nostalgic enough to have them
But in spite of my best comedic timing
of blinks winks and smiles
I can't seem to mask the shit
running down my arm
from this dead poet's ass.
Comments
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fantASStic! looks as though we've both returned, somewhat.
It's great reading you again, you were (and always will be) a favorite of mine, missdrip.
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