Poetry as smooth as a babies behind,
living poems from the Ace's mind.
Ridding the word of its lumps,
smoothing down the poetic bumps.
On a bumpy road with potholes,
smoothly down it the Ace scrolls.

Makes no difference of page wrinkle,
the Ace's poetry will down sprinkle.
In this universe of much confusion,
Ace poems reality not illusion.
Then again he might leave reality,
expression so smooth,
forget being a fatality.

Surely in his history,
the poet might remain a mystery.
Thoroughly educated to humble,
Watchout Ace,
don't stumble.
Even down on the ground,
Ace so smooth,
he won't be found.
Then there would be another birth,
a poetic living earth.

G