you dont

now as an artist is your hair straggly like this yet?

sometimes yes, sometime almost shorn! short~

do you expect to love anyone with such a mug?

no sir no sir not indeed at all

yer head is like a sink
yer mind is murk
yer heart
is built on kitchen teeth
yer feet hurt
you rhyme like a fat plate of spaghetti
in the ozone layer
yer vers becomes prose
moan and poems

to route its swampy n'ers
you fingers are lonesome
yer joints sore, and yer feet are cracked
dry skin's the game and fighting's the aim

what sort of ballocks is that when you cry your name
what sordid air of pillars are these?

its ne'er do well
fail fellow fête
hail fellow met

yer leo with a kindness rising
caught by the hairs of stamped date nowt

come to the shore of Ireland
lake in your hand
rest your weary shoulders here my child
rest your weary bones yer borned to the end
psalm and calm as wraith come lone ~