I wrote this poem with oil, vinegar, and fine foods.
My pen did not.

I drew this picture with eyelashes, mustaches, and tears.
My paintbrush did not.

I thought this thought with lip balm, pine trees, and mosquitoes.
My brain did not.

I do not dream with REM but with caterpillars and manure.

Oh, Jack Kerouac, take me to bed and ease my itching.

Listen to that bluegrass play...
Fall asleep...