"nixed" poems
Glass is cheaper than the stone skin
tattooed on their foreheads. The palace, a splendid fantasy,
half built when the idea will be abandoned.
Freedom is a powerful nuisance! Their only
sin is looking at the world through rose-colored
glasses, make people feel at ease despite distress and disease.
The right wing redneck reactionary republicans continue
religious slaughtering. *This nightmare scenario should
be nixed,* said with a sneer, I hope they’re wearing warm socks.
Still, I couldn’t crack the code. Changed envy to admiration
to cultivate mystery rare as it is rewarding. The weird thing
is the high-end whiskey collecting dust on the on the shelves.
Nothing short of astonishing, like the space farers gazing back
at the home planet. Distant. They fascinate people.
Animate the inanimate environment. Isolation above.
Looking back I am ashamed of the mess we are leaving
our children and grandchildren. How to allocate these limited
resources? The key is to engage. No easy fixes.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
This here poem is about a puppy, you need not know his name
Only in that he is a puppy, you should know him all the same
This here puppy had an awareness not unlike your own
He knew he had to lick his ***** and hide his ****** bone
This little puppy stumbled about, much like you once did
Back when you were a dumb as **** snot faced little kid
The puppy found his world confusing much like you still do
But unlike you this puppy knows he hasn’t a ****** clue
See here what this puppy knows, is that it’s ok to have no reason
To call into doubt what you think you know, isn’t ******* treason
This here puppy he figured out that his reality isn’t fixed
In fact it’s incomplete, not done, any beliefs he had were nixed
You could learn a lot from him, if you’d only stop a bit
Put aside your petty wants, try thinking while you ****
Wisdom and compassion you’ll see walk hand in hand
Be considerate of your actions, keep your head out of the sand
This puppy has no enemies and yet you have a million
If you lived but ten more years, I bet you’ll have a billion
Try being like the puppy, just appreciate what you’ve been given
Sometimes it takes just a smile to see why life’s worth liven
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 8:43 PM UTC
I existed for you, mister;
I extolled your complex nature.
I was intoxicated, briefly; you were good.
You excelled at smart seduction;
you outfoxed me with your hoaxes.
I didn't watch my heart the way I should;
but by the flux of your affections,
it meant approximately nothing.
Any buxom minx could have you if she tried.
It was a lonely anticlimax,
but I kicked my sad fixation
and nixed your plans to decimate my pride.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 5:29 PM UTC
Well I changed all the locks
Cause I couldn't get in
And I moved all the clocks
Cause time seemed too thin
And I made love be free
Cause it was too dear
And I made the blind see
So they'd have no fear
And I opened the parks
So you could visit for free
And removed all the marks
That said you couldn't just be
I tore down the fences
And opened the gates
And nixed the verb tenses
So we could relate
Now the world is much changed
But I'm tiffed to discover
That our brains are deranged
In our rooms made of rubber
Oct 16, 2010
Oct 16, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
I dissolve
When I'm in the thick of nature
It turns my brain off (for once)
Smells cast spells
Sounds surround
I am finally in it
I feel
Sparse
Whittled down
To bone and breath
Arabesque complexity nixed
And I am
OK with that
My worries
Go extinct
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Another adventure begins
On a day to remember
On the 11th hour of the 11th day
Of the 11th month in 1918
WWI ended
But the war continues
Between the material and spiritual
The Grand Inquisitor in all of us
(Dostoevsky)
Tries to encapsulate the formless
We're all searching for the magic pill
Red or blue
What would you choose?
Fortunately, there is no choice
You become who you are eventually
It just depends how many lives
It takes for a full realization
Of this reality
A spiritual warrior is always in transition
I'm spending the next few weeks traveling from
Portland to Los Angeles
Maybe on to Peru from there
I plan on writing in realtime
In spacetime, I'll be riffing
Suggestions of where to explore are appreciated
That would put a big smile on my face
I told my Cree friend of this journey
She laughed and called me Thotin
Thotin is wind; wind in all forms
I told her I identified with water
She nixed that:
'water is too predictable, wind is just ****** nuts'
We lol'd
I guess the wind is blowing west
:)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
A broken heart
By definition
Cannot act
Based on ambition
And is doomed
To submission
Cursed to feel
Only contrition
But take this moment to listen
To what I have to say to you
A broken heart
Is seen as weak
And the future
Of it bleak
But every crack
Tear and streak
Leaves the owner
More unique
With only confidence to accrue
A broken heart
Once it’s mended
Can shake off
Why it pretended
To endure
What it expended
To keep it’s
Own needs unattended
In fear of losing what was good
A broken heart
Once fixed
Even with
Emotions mixed
And after all
Enemies nixed
By their lies
So transfixed
Is now free to do what it should
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
She was working cashier at the burger place
Boss was always dissing her hair
All the piercing, on her body and face
It wasn't ever right, or fair
She was taking take out orders over by the grill
Keeping eyes on the pockets of grease
That's when she saw me, ooo she saw me
I walked into the out line, out line
I wore a raspberry toupee
The kind ya buy in a used toupee store
Raspberry toupee
If it was warm, sweating out of every pore
Raspberry toupee
I think I love her
Built like I was
I had the nerve to ask her
If her buns were really warm and hard
So, I winked
That's when she hit me
slapped me with a greasy frying pan
and beat me, with a tub of lard
I say now, burger days used to turn me on
But something about my plans with her nixed
I wasn't all to bright
But I could tell when she beat me
She knew how to deliver her kicks
I wore a raspberry toupee
The kind ya buy in a used toupee store
It was a raspberry toupee
If it was warm, sweating out of every pore
Raspberry toupee
I think I love her
The pains make me scream, almost every day
All the customers wonder who I am
My bandages hide, just what she sees
Sitting down, am still seeing stars
Listen
They say the first words ain't the greatest
But I tell ya
If I had the chance to do it all again
I wouldn't say a thing
'Cause my bodies in a sling
With a girl as strong as she was then
I wore a raspberry toupee
The kind ya buy in a used toupee store
It was a raspberry toupee
If it was warm, sweating out of every pore
It was a raspberry toupee
I think I, I think I, I think I love her!
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
Some people see personality
I just see criminality
What some call statesmanship
To me is not so hip.
There must be a different definition
In your version of the Constitution
But mine says we all are free
And not just those D.C.
And not just those Caucasians
Should be entitled to rations
Of respect and equality.
But we’re victims of duality
Without causality
Because our voice is nixed
Nothing gets fixed.
Nobody cares about the crooks
Until something of theirs gets took
Then they want to throw the book
Without a second look
At who it hits. It’s totally tragic
That so many believe in magic
Like somebody waves a wand
And all the thugs will be gone
From our leadership.
It’s a ****** trip
And a total rip
That they think someone cares.
But, nothing makes rich people scared
Unless someone else takes
One third of everything they make
Then they scream like banshees.
Meanwhile, down on our knees
We cry right across the board
But we are the blighted horde;
We never really scored.
We were just here to buy junk
And not listen to the bunk
The one-percent hurls our faces;
We live with the disgraces
And wish we could do something.
Wish we could do anything
To break this eternal ring
Of money meaning purity.
Yes, it is a homily
But it is practically
All there is.
Talk to the Wiz.
He’ll tell you it is crap.
It’s just a trap.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
The boy was happy,
His every whim fulfilled,
But the fun left debts to repay.
His bank account always refilled,
By the man who gave him life.
The debtors kept him leashed,
To this expensive way of life.
His idea of friends tested,
As they cause nothing but strife.
He pays and pays, to get his fix,
They make and make, as he tries to change.
He pays and pays, his money nixed,
The “friends” of the boy, begin to unhinge,
The life of their toy, to start by beating,
They move on to a picture, so incriminating.
This boy now sees his life, how he was cheating,
A quick fix for the stress, non-discriminating.
The time of his life was slowly ending.
If that image got out, he would lose his lifeline,
His only chance to pay for the thing,
The thing that he did not need, but craved.
The men kept him trapped,
With a childhood picture, something depraved,
Left this young boy trapped, in a life he no longer craved.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 6:17 PM UTC
For the past thirty years or so
I’ve heard Republican broad hints
That never quite come to pass.
They must think I am dense;
That I sit and watch my TV
And get all stoked to hear them
Promise they will set things right
But reality never comes near them.
They talk about our poverty gap
And how they will narrow it down
And how they will lower interest
And they will quit fooling around.
They go on about their opponents,
Even when they have good records,
And then the election comes and
The people fail to get it together.
So every eight years they vote,
These fools I must call my peers
And throw the good guy out.
Every freaking eight years.
An even once after just four
They told the good guy goodbye
Then put in a world class crook.
Can anyone really say why?
I’ve watched my fellow man
Go bonkers like this repeatedly
And vote in some twisted clown
That ******* us up completely.
Nixon looked like the creep he was;
A greasy, rude and stupid man.
Then Reagan was a liar and a looter
I never was that fool’s loyal fan.
In between we’d get someone
In the job who wanted things fixed.
He would work hard as he could
And pray things wouldn’t be nixed.
But the current bubble-headed villain
Said he’d take the country back;
All his predecessor was guilty of
Was of being unremittingly black.
So, what’s with these people here
Who can’t tell a good thing from bad?
Why can’t they recognize success
And good times we have had?
All indexes were up, things were fine
Things were not a bit bad that fall.
So why did the half bright-Americans
Choose a guy with no experience at all?
Surely they don’t think any guy
Who doesn’t give a **** about them
Would care about more than rich buddies.
Of course not! That would be just dim.
Yet they did it and proved that fools,
When they’re left to play with the adults,
Can ruin things when they’re going well.
Now we must live with the results.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
It’s a time payment concept
With compounding interest
That gets harder every year
And puts faith to the test.
It’s brokered by agents with
PhDs in fancy double-talk
That everything is God's will
And you’re not allowed to balk.
It’s sort of like the tax people
Only the rules are not so fixed;
No good calling attorneys up
That’s action’s definitely nixed.
The deal is that you can’t win
And must suffer with piety;
Give your money and thanks
To a fat cat you cannot see!
In exchange you get to go to
Play dress-up every Sunday
And pray for the senselessness
God is supposed to take away,
Or maybe remove diseases
That **** the good and innocent.
But you’re allowed to pray that
Your Lotto ticket wins you a mint!
Either way, you’re blameless
When it gets to be holiday time
And nothing changes as politics
Becomes the scene of the crime.
So drop another couple of coins in
Some sd homeless person’s hat,
Because God will take care of them,
And that’s where religion is at.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)
while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry
older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices
inside my noggin) a potential ***
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel
(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated
concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected *********** exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.
"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, ***
tent shill slave driver subsequently not
quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding **** mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair,
the little atop nixed noggin aye got
as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
I'm a kind of tired that sleep can't fix
in a game gone amiss where no one wins
in a race stuck in place that don't begin
where every action is seen as sin
I am kind of lost where no compass
can find a home or points to bliss
facing the wind as I ****
the stains on my soles will iterate this
Im the kind of mad that lacks their tricks
a sad gone bad that cant be nixed
perplexed and had caught in the mix
as it all comes down like a ton of bricks
An introvert to escape the hurt
whos grew quite sick of chasing skirts
nomad on the landscape scraping dirt
disguising a grave as a yurt
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.
Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.
Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.
*************************************************
Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Can I just be with you?
Where I can hold your hand
Where I can kiss your lips
Where I can lean on your shoulder
Where I can hear your heartbeat next to mine
Can I just be with you?
When I cannot hold myself anymore
When I cannot pause my emotions
When I cannot hold back my tears
When I cannot help myself telling all my problems
Can I just be with you?
Please, tell me.
I just wanna be with you
Where I disremember the reality
Where I am floating in my dreams with you
When everything nixed me
When I don’t know what else to do
So let me ask you again
Can I just be with you?
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
I am in a circle of agony.
As I venture out, I am forever drawn into the center,
centrifugal forces area lie--
I can never seem to flee, but I am rather so attracted
to that pinpoint of melancholy
that seems to resonate with me
too much to be healthy,
too much to make sense.
As I look back at our mess,
the storm we created,
the whirlwind of excitement
and pain and hurt and toxicity
(but the love was there)
all I see now are a mumble of black and red,
the words mixed and blurred,
the meaning nixed.
It is in this chaos,
I feel safe.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
I’ve been mired in an existential crisis for so long now, I don’t trust jelly.
It just doesn’t look right.
Bear with me here. (Barry the bubbly brown bear. See what I did there?)
What if, jelly disproves the life is a computer simulation theory?
Why would a sentient machine running a computer program to simulate life write jelly into the programming?
It wouldn’t, right?
So now that I’ve nixed that theory for y’all.
What else ya got?
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC
Whomsoever you might be?
If I wrote a letter to a stranger:
whose name I do not know,
will they answer with a pseudonym:
under a brash bon mot?
If I seal it in an envelope
and mail it off in haste,
will it ever be delivered,
or my writing prove a waste?
Now should that stranger answer,
with deception thought my game,
will their reply be in keeping?
or think it such a shame,
that the details of my letter -
the one they never got -
should be scrapped as junk mail,
because their name I had forgot?
Of course, they may not answer,
which to me would be unfair,
for having taken time to write one,
and mail it off to where
they once resided - perhaps still do?
If they deign not to answer?:
Does that seem right to you?
If I addressed it wrongly,
would it come back to me?
Or if I expedite it,
in a fit of urgency!
If it was not delivered,
what would the mailman think?
Would he ‘return to sender’,
or refer me to a Shrink?
But writing to a stranger,
and keeping them amused,
leaves me in a quandary,
and a little bit confused!
So perhaps I'll scrap my letter,
until a later day,
and write it when I get to know,
exactly where they stay?
But now another problem rises,
one that must be fixed:
with the details I now know,
their ambiguity is nixed!
So my letter to a stranger,
will have to wait I fear,
for news I want to impart,
is nothing they would hear.
So I’ll wait until I’m sure,
that why, who, where and whence,
the news I would impart,
will possess a modicum of sense?
Rhymer. July 1st, 2018.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
Within Pantheon Of Classical Gods
stricken with affliction,
sans amyotrophic lateral sclerosis
(also known as ALS,
or Lou Gehrig's disease)
in the prime of his youth wrought
underestimation, vitiated termination,
targeted sequestration,
solidified rigidification,
rendered quandary,
per paralyzation obliterated,
nixed navigation,
morphed motivation,
marked limitation
kickstarted infatuation,
jinxed immobilization,
induced intellectual hyperfunction,
garnered fundamental fascination,
fanned fabled exploration,
devastation demonstrated
delectable declaration,
cosmological constant comet
clinched, chained certain capitulation,
brainstormed benefaction,
benediction attribution assured.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
his longevity (marked by bing permanently
linkedin, hitched, drafted
to a custom made wheelchair,
his brilliant unsullied scientific genius)
endured seventy six orbitz veer
ring round the nearest star,
though seemingly motionless, he freed their
ret tickle physiochemical insight
encompassing, revolutionizing,
and jaw-dropping, revelations
with mortals he did share
transcendent seeded plentifully
mental limitless groundswell
fed his fecund rare
if eyed cogitated, formulated, insulated
(infinitesimal nook and cranny) force queer
lee disproportionate overly endowed capacity
bracketed with mar ching madness peer
ring with laser, razor, and taser sharp mind
(or a minuscule approximate near
facsimile thereof) scrutinizing, positing,
and discerning astronomical phenomena mere
via concentrating gifted limned, and rapacious,
though processes affixed
with a visage mordantly like King Lear.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
There were twenty women and fourteen men
From the wreck on that tiny spit,
Lost in that mighty ocean, just a
Mile was the most of it,
There were pigs galore from a previous crew
Who’d been wrecked some years before,
And plenty of veg, they fished from a ledge
Jutting out, and over the shore.
So in time the fourteen had paired them off
And it left, forlorn, the six,
There wasn’t a single partner left
For the girls to scratch their itch,
So they huddled up and began to plot
How to thin out the ranks of those
Who took up the men that were meant for them,
They started by shedding their clothes.
There were naked ******* that they thought would test
The men in the rival camp,
Would lure them off in the undergrowth
To lie where the earth was damp,
And it worked for some, though the men returned
To the partners they chose before,
‘The only way that they’re going to stay,’
Said the six, ‘is to go to war.’
Charmaine was found in a grove of trees
With her face, all covered in blood,
And Derek didn’t seem too displeased
He latched onto Maxine Flood,
But the thirteen said, her blood was red,
And they looked askance at the five,
‘We need to arm, and raise the alarm
If we’re going to stay alive.’
But a dozen died in the camp that night,
The soup had given them cramps,
Eleven woman had taken flight
And the one old man, called Gramps,
That left a surplus of thirteen men
And the women numbered seven,
‘There’s not enough to go round,’ they said,
But the women were in heaven.
The six bereft of the men were left
To mumble and scheme and plot,
‘We need to **** at least six of them,
Whether we want, or not!’
So late at night in the pale moonlight
There were shadows abroad in the trees,
And before the dawn, the six had gone,
Beaten down to their knees.
There were six and six, you would think it fixed,
In a year they’d be in hell,
For two of the girls lay down, were nixed
Gave birth, in a winter spell,
The men denied said they had their pride
And attacked their mates of yore.
But somehow managed to **** all three,
So now there were three and four.
‘We’ll keep the fourth in reserve,’ they said,
‘In case of a sudden death,’
But Maxine Flood was in no such mood
Though she sat, and she held her breath,
They made her fish and they made her cook
While she worked upon her wish,
And when just one of the men was gone
She fed them puffer fish.
‘Now there’s only you, and there’s only me,’
She called, when he wandered back,
Staggering into the camp, he said,
‘I’ve been in a shark attack!’
His arm was missing, he bled right out,
And died in front of her eyes,
While Maxine Flood had rolled in his blood
And cried to the empty skies.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
I don't always know when
I'm being loved - early years come back
to bite. You make this easier -
second guesses die on the vine.
All that's left for me to
wonder is what to tell
you when I'm feeling this tinge
of melancholy.
Do I report from "the Century"
to tell you about the two bottles
of Dark Horse I've put down,
celebrating the wild Derby
where the winner was nixed?
Or do I broadcast the sea curl
& salted air that pass your
name dune to dune in the
wild grass, as night eats
my cigarette and flicks sand
into my hair?
Neither -
instead I blush toward
the evergreen stoplights as we talk -
smile the little shells
that break the walk.
I sigh, go inside,
have a little Turkish lesson -"su ve süt"
& maybe that is enough.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 8:31 PM UTC
{editer note: ******* title nixed as non sensicle, but his contract gave him title rights if the inner net ever was re-al-ized, so his title was:
De-fine ite religion to its ment tent,
intended to set a course on defining religion,
then faith and seeing what would happen next,
because we went some ways with that idea we
we, integrit I ated we
we know how important your valuing peace is to the value of peace.
Butterfly hurricanes in the Bermuda triangle,
that's just gas,
like when a newborn smiles at the twinkle in his grandma's eye.
But let your peace come into a place,
see if, still see if still be still again slower still your will be done on earth
how? right? who can do what God would do if he were you?}
In my mind, my perfectly calmable mind
I am culpable for drawing your attention,
claims the flame to the moth who
exclaims, idea, I die for do I care
que? sera sera
Madre mia sang that song right along
made her matter, like she was dancing for me,
baby,
who twisted that little head
who told you that little lie
why, why, why, baby, why
give me a reason for the faith that is in you or
we all die
anyway
the idea is first, always, right? The thought before there's a word or any
no, no. nothing is impossible, so something must be.
My thanks, a shout out to A. Conan Doyle, a sir or something I believe,
He gave us both the 5% solution and the Piltdown Hoax.
Timed for real ation, or revelation 20 years after 20 landmarks
surfaced. Holmes winked at Jesus, I know what you mean.
Something is possible. Nothing is not.
Yes. Good News. Quite.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC