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.
