The pen may be mightier than sword.. but upon whom does, such attention afford? There they sit, a pocket full of shiny shells, wrapping their herbs in a purple shell. All is well that ends well.. better find the wishing well.
Do tell? How many yet write a verse.. decipher a curse, or can actually converse?
I’m afraid we’ve mislaid, the blueprints and instead chased our favorite dragons.. and fallen off wagons. Now in drag, with new fads, moms are the dads.. dads are skirt-wearers, not skirt-chasers.
I cannot complain, begin to explain, or refrain from this wide-eyed astonish, a deer in headlights.. rubbernecking at your ways. And her ways, and his ways, and their ways.. and most of all my own, wavering, attempt at new ways. I’m a failure in mine own eyes, a legend in his, an atrocity in hers. Which is the clarity, the clerical, errical, what was I talking about?
Who can say? You’re not paying attention, neither am I cause they don’t pay us enough with our slave for the wage, to care. Or to prepare.. that’s the point. Point? Where? When you know, ya still don’t fuxxin know! Ya know? Wait? Who?
I don’t care.
Any. More.
I CAN’t care.
Any Less.
Or, of course… vice versa.

So smile, it’ll feel nicer. Wiser isn’t wise, weary eyes, there is no prize.. for your supposed
sacrifice. There is no magic in her wiles. While for a while, you’ll smile.
All’s well that ends well. When will it end? End will it win? I can’t even figure my own wisdom so how would I win some, did lose some. Yet.. all well in the well. The fountain runs, while our nation runs.. from the wise. The eyes. The Son of The High one. Won’t take the high road, unless it’s keeping them high, though it never lasts. Jesus gasps. Jesus wept.
The End. Again, and Again.