herewith do i ask of my fine friends;
why have i yet to see the light of day?
i waited on the cold gravel sulking,
thinking, and again found myself
begging my great woe to waste away

the story became a bit too much,
i wrote it on my legs that wouldn't cart.
as the eyes and faces watched me i sighed
for the first time in months there was joy
but to joy escaping was an art.