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The Pleasure of Being
I continually read the dross,
Of the poor souls found them lost,
In seas of absyinth and iniquity,
I have had this one the time be for it me.
Ah, the hard jewewls of some large breasted girl,
That causes me at once to call,
Upon they're sapience or loss of mind,
That makes me sit here and shovel time;
To they're frequent mounds of potted earth,
I think myself, I have gave birth,
To this rambunctious quarry with too much water,
"Well look at this! It is your daughter!"
But hold my hand and feel my beat,
This is the rhythm of the meat,
That dives and digs to be released,
I am the punishment of my own grief.
(c)R.H.Elliott 2004
