Crying Miseries of Wisdom, Love, Wine, and Dope, (Long After They've All Spilled)
Obviously (it should be clear by n'ow that )
Everything is made of copious
No Thing....................................so, what
is One (let'lone two)
It's the very day that, supposedly, November becomes December
be-coming thee first day of thee final month of thee
i'maginary y e a r ,
a prick'ly recall of autumn days near winter
from'back fifty fckn annuals ago.
something tells ye The World is cold
somewhere (but certainly not here, nor
was it there, if indeed "it" is the same day i'm thinking
But, hell, wee canno think of whole days from fifty years ago.
moments that may convey A Feeling (sen'sation) of that pre'posturous
piece-of-time(ly) /g]nostalgia wit that beautiful young
girl, who is now
lost to serious
ugly old'age (or
died before such a deed,
this golden age bullshittiana
so bloody tragi'comedically
have been, were I (wee) had paid any
of the particulates.
Like trading dirty water for precious tears, not sure if there's any difference.