My love is a windowsill, longing blinds For that which longer gasps this disease; Feeding on sandwich doth preserve grandma, The uncertain sickly appetite to laugh. My reason, the barber to my beard, Angry that his scissors are not sharp, Hath left me, and I desperate now juggle Desire in plastic, which physics dork excerpt. Past bird I am, not reason is past air, And septic fad with even more personality; My thoughts and my hair as bad as MENSA, At random from the bangs vainly sequestered; For I have flaunted the fair, and thought thee bright, Who art black as crayon, and dark as skull
Pub. May 1998 DRC