SOME SORT OF NEW...
Pummel the waters with your wave,
stinking crew of the old leaky scow -
you've been known to leave like this
before. Once becomes twice, the same
way as nothing soon becomes something.
And the story lines always lie. At every stop,
an inkwell is pressured to burst - gangly words
all drippy and wet, debark from the planks of
the deck. We squeeze out whatever we can,
eking this or stomping that. Ribald fun at
every shore-leave stop. They leave the lights
on, just for us, and all the willowy things are
waiting. Isn't this a charming life? Some
sort of new endeavor? It's like
that, how a writer lives.
Pummel the waters with your wave,
stinking crew of the old leaky scow -
you've been known to leave like this
before. Once becomes twice, the same
way as nothing soon becomes something.
And the story lines always lie. At every stop,
an inkwell is pressured to burst - gangly words
all drippy and wet, debark from the planks of
the deck. We squeeze out whatever we can,
eking this or stomping that. Ribald fun at
every shore-leave stop. They leave the lights
on, just for us, and all the willowy things are
waiting. Isn't this a charming life? Some
sort of new endeavor? It's like
that, how a writer lives.
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