Well now I'd sell my soul for a pound Of words: all picked clean of ambiguity; Rocks and detritus removed, Preselected for clarity of meaning Predestined for the musical familiarity Measured out for rhyme and syncopation Delivered by some gum chewing, ball-capped deviant Nervously glancing up and down the street As he slips me the stash, and I hand over the cash. Yes, what a dream; instead of the frown Then the squint; with a curse on the scribbled, marked through letters Killing, resurrecting, then killing them all over again Buried, dug up, and reanimated Embalmed, only to be cast again on the bone pile Trying to remove the threadbare impressions With the worn out, gnawed upon pink eraser Drooling, staring at the clock, eating more junk food In between the hours of crisis and midnight The only right answer being To eradicate whatever I like And leave alone whatever makes me uncomfortable Impossible task: insipidity ruins the brilliance The plot's flaccid and lacking moral filibuster The characters weep and sing at the wrong times. What kind of a racket Doesn't even have a black market To turn to when you're desperate, And you've got to die To have your name be remembered, If indeed it ever would be.