A while it has been yes it has since I have
Written a word upon the page in verse
Keeping my pen locked up tight like
The lips of a tortured spy pursed
Just barely ready to spill the beans
Canned up inside the steel casing
A feast for some poor miscreant to
Consume while toward the north facing
Like some cod upon the plate filleted
With its face and head cut off completely
From the face of the earth and buried
In the dirt down there it has been laid
Still the words flow like the river tigris
Pouring out of my soul like some torrent
Of a tyrantial flood that flows with smooth
Ease with the breath of the winds current
For as I live and breathe so is my pen
The grand part of me I cannot escape
No matter how long I should be a part
From its ever reaching gaze.