Friends to trust.
   Hair all mussed-up as a must.
   "Somewhere in my mind, I think I'm moving."
   Poetry stands blind to: 'You can't do that here.'
   Says, "#$@* off" to bending an ear...
That's why submitted to...
Unwilling to submitt. Says come closer story listeners,
Stories told here.
   Russian and I same.
   Tibetan and I.
   Your views and mine.
Hey mate! You's walking this trail for a reason?

Who's taking meals-festive to heights unadorned?
Who's banking on 'deamons to see through to angels?'
Taken directly, Wes Craven ends.
Another name bends all to its wishes.

   Light-up!
   Left, wind-up.
   Hands wave, "I'm fine, just breathing."
   Stooped over, coughing.
   Says, "#$@* off' to 'tending some dearest's garden...'
Willing to submit to you angel eyes!
Says show us your ass,
Those glistening thighs.

Whores housed here.
Kidnapper and I same.
Murderer and I 'wave our hands in the air like we just don't care.'
Tremulous, slink to our goal,
Slither to and fro and...whoosh!
Washed away,
Make way for another show.

Copyright 1997-2002 Joe Duvernay. All rights reserved.