It ain’t far to the lo-keep

under rocks and stars,

to ensure it is wrongly

identified by the sharp-

necked wonderment

of the right-wrong

fooking good-like

thang called

reed and sorrowful times.

It could be a right turn, it could

be a left, but

not the rightment

nor the lefting

will be able

to make them able

to see it to the ends

of sorrow.

It ain’t the right nor the left

but the sorrers and the say’ds

that make it all sound like

there’s a wonder and a wolven

that good do for you

and yourn. It

is not the right

but then it could be,

who ask what it is

to be here when it


I will be interned here

but not then

as it do good

to be hearned

and way’d away from

the righter and the

lefter too,

for it got about

time’d and so it be then

that you ask, what

is it you do if

you don’t know when it


When shall you

reconvene if it is

about writing and not

reading too?

Where is the writer in the

scheme of all loss

and the fragrant

youth of all

that makes you

know it is really

gonna hurt

to win?



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