i toy with an idea i don't own
pouncing adopting on marriage bed
sleepytime, i stroke the black curly notes
as if they grew from my own head
singing our song of circumstance
i foster a godless inheritance
disdain the tune of society's dance
and give the little bastard a chance.. to be Man
vindictive vigil, my amber tune
brown but i know they're really blue
revising correcting fathering i assume
thought i am not the author
jPayne spring 96 (ouachita archives)
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