said timid David,
wrapped in ecstasy.
“If I were to love you,
I would tell you of the flowers
That you would receive
But, I’m sorry to admit,
That that’s not quite my bag.
I much prefer to tell you myself,
So the florist be damned.”
David wraps his arms around his arbitrary name.
Love is simple.
Why can’t peace be the same?
We must all ask why we take the sour cynicists into account.
How much can they really represent,
If they’re too busy pissing on my (your) rhetoric?
The layman would ask me to not use my own terminology,
But how can I explain this in terms other than the immortal that I hold dear?
Number 5, number 5, how you suit me so well.
You’re complete, but odd.
Estranged from his or her thoughts,
One must act with swift conduct.
I can’t imagine the consequence of a slower martial artist.
And thus, we make our way to the martial arts,
Dear Reader (that’s you, and I love you, very , very much).
But, let us ignore the subtleties of Tai Chi.
Because, I’m rather drunk, and couldn’t perform
Even if I really wanted to.
Actually, I don’t know that.
Neither do you.
This is my lament.
And my love.
Transcribed in simple English.
“Thank the Gods for Vodka!”
I yell, with complete sincerity!
This is newness,
Not like the monotony of burning Earth!
My tolerance is at a standstill.
Is what we use an excuse
To be less intoxicated that we actually are.
Toughness incarnate, isn’t it?
Dear Reader? (Much love, by the way.)