The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.

A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.

Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.

The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.

The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.

The  guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.