SONNET 139
There is something to be said 'bout final birthdays,
Of yearly desires reviled 'cept sunshined pebbles
Count so furor etched on a daily final pray.
Oh death, unspeakable to the unspeakable
Friend like tuna cans, of lies th' under-corporate,
Eden's beset, for love I till on leather close.
They desire peace. Yet, O! what peace? at all cost rate
Tolerance verbose, we 'n exile, on broken stones.
Where they don't speak nor move nor stop them sickles loom
Finances not nor ignorance is evil's root
But wanton evil, of cemetery mushrooms
Corpse-fed's own soot, crematory fire bethreat t' loot --
Let us make worthy days at the end of this line;
Life is not long nor too short but today with foretime.
