Some stories come with songs,
some waltz in a lone, strange peace,
with surface tension
something jes'wentwright, mmhmm
wrought by god,
twang taut copper wire whisting
shards of ceramic insulation, change
- we were running stone to stone
the girl, it was a girl, kicked a stone
she oughta stepped on and moved on,
she stepped out of line, so now,
no need for me to tell her, once more,
there is always a place to put your foot,
- too long the blame, how long the shame?
a messenger on the barefoot road knows,
some songs are for the journey joy,
some are for home come joy,
some are for always joy.
some are for once.
It ain't easy. But there's plants. Listen.
as a mortal message, Hear this,
does not remove the power
in the word, read.
gulpunctuated inequilibrium'n al alaq
this is no joke…
Had the most famous hearer of that message,
obeyed, what a wonderfilled world might this be,
watchawatcha wa wah
shooobeepshaboom shake it all shake it all
whata wonder full world we see….
see the shelter fade… words as ash remain,
to remind me of the wrightminder
just burned on this point.
For a story that wished to be poetry, just once
Freedom of the press belongs to the press owner, according to B. Franklin and W. Blake... an adage easier to prove these days. No lie.