al gore

How do you feel

I for one

For two

For three

Would like to harm you so gross

Make love to morose

And privy my thoughts to a ghost.

I purged the blood from my throat

And prayed not to choke

But the thought rang out like a toast

High and mighty my dear,

Assert to my fear

And vile so vile my truth

They think I’m sad

But I pray I’m just mad

Oh wouldn’t that be so uncouth?

My head is the maker,

lungs surely the breaker,

of what I can hear but not see

if I let it prolong, 

or end it so wrong,

then all of you voices be free