You said,

I said,

My name is Ed,

Yours might be Ned…

So much said, so many ways, languages a many,

Throughout the world so round, what is said is so plenty,

Wish I could have said, that I was young again, maybe twenty…

So many things said, too much to worry about till we are dead,

When we are dead we can do what we want, we can then shed our spread,

So before, dear reader, you do become a pot head,

Move on to a better life, a life is better than being dead, yes instead…

Speaking of being said, or was it dead or pot head,

Oh what the hell I cannot recall again,

Must be the pot in this poet’s head,

Or the lacking ability to custard the mustard,

Damn I write weird when high as a kite, it almost although makes some sense,

At least to me, or to the powers on high,

That give us the pretense from whence does come our defense…

                        © ed ~ 8/4/04