when poetry is good to me
the words all flow so easily
when she's a bitch the same old itch
still stings and burns inside of me
through scars and tears through waxy ears
through endless whiskies, wines and beers
distorted by my jaundiced eye
bad memories and present fears
all skew all whiff all bluff no cliff
no hands no eyes all full of spliff
no dice no games no crying shames
no rank no pack no drill no names
the One who All must Praise still sings
and I must tell her many things
Little Flower Book by Wayne Myers