Go now greenly into brown
and shed the dead outerness
serenely, as maid gown,
as life body, as cicada skin.
My Grandfather The Tailor
My grandfather the tailor was a stocky Ukrainian.
By day he worked in the sweat shops,
By evening cold chicken and tea.
A lump of sugar for him and one for me.
This Death Some Will Lament
some will lament
remembering brief flames,
but to you,
oh come to me
my l' il honey lips
we'll sip the wine
and in between the sips
Love Of Owen Roche
I shall write you a song, little
you have thorns but you're my kind of flower
we'll go live in an ivory tower
and I'll make up a whole song for you