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my Little Crow
I am in the room that would be my mother’s;
If my mother lived within this house.
I am pounding with my fist the spot my little crow would rest;
If my little crow still lived.
I am singing songs to elegant beauties;
Sight after all is another curse called a gift.
Life is what we make it;
And only the living dead live forever.
Thomas Jefferson’s slaves;
They knew of Jeffersonian democracy in Iraq.
The Premier of Ontario knows of no dukes;
Only queens.
Little children speak to adults;
Adults speak to little children when the lights are turned off.
She was so evil;
And she died the victim of the perfectly good.
He spinned his story;
And his story was worth reading, if he could only read it aloud to you.
His testicles stagnated in decadent rot;
Like a pair of heroes hung.
We are all well hung;
With squinty eyes, they die falling.
