It's flattering to know;
I would rather talk about varsity leagues
And male machismo;
The leaves, my dead imagination and about war,
And yet channel my thoughts to events where my burial would be the centre of a clown's birthday,
I wonder who ever are clowns in a Clowns birthday?
Impoverished thoughts,
My writer is fantasized dead,
Might be for you to look at me once,

In my imagination you stroke my hair,
In my imagination, you call me yours.