My collar
is blue
But my neck’s
still red
My soul has
to grow corns
As well as
my middle finger
From writing
From pointing
out that
I’ll work
and I’ll pay taxes
-I’ll not be
certain what good they are, though.
And yet
I won’t
stop avoiding death
By reading
a gloaming
And listening
to the poetry
Of a
speechless youngster
Who doesn`t
know anything at all
About the
daily insanity
Because he’s
very busy
Falling in
love with
his very
own soul.
