I wonder where my little pagan princess is?
No doubt, she's out casting spells,
or getting her nails, hair, and lips painted black.
I gave her a broomstick for her birthday and said it was cheaper on gas than her Saab.
She failed to see the humor in it.
What I wouldn't give to find a woman that dug watching sunsets, The Three stooges, and listening to Miles Davis; that looked alive, instead of like Morticia from the Adams Family,  or some demented funeral
director on crack.

She's got a meeting with the
coven tonight.
I suggested that we get some
Chardonnay, put on some Van Morrison, and make love by
the fireplace.
She just cackled and flew off,
in her Saab, not on the broomstick.

So this is what
Dying inside
Most resembles
I get all depressed
And I never
Write better
Just give me four walls
And occasional light
And I’ll gladly dwell
Well
In a cell of my plight
Not in spite
Of the doubt
I can make it out there
But in fear
I’d be living
The daily nightmare