FROM THE "ID" of "ED", or maybe this time from the "AD" of ed... 

AD INFINITUM…& rants, raves & continued rubbish…

I realize I have queried this type of question before,

But it just strikes me kind weird,

I write and I write,

Poems of all kinds and stripes,

Poems of humor, poems about my pain in the ass pet,

But when I go to check my reviews,

I find that the ones that I thought were the worst,

Seem to get all the authors muse…

I really try to subsequently amuse,

But find sometimes that whatever it is I try,

Seem to be taken with differentiating hues,

Some off-color, some the color of mainstream news,

But all along, the reviewers, while saying all positive,

They send out and give,

Me comments about the ones I would think,

Just kinda stink…

But I guess who is to say where one persons tastes lie,

Some are in humor, some in pets, some in the ones that are sly,

Some even in the type that talk mostly about those that fly,

Me, I find the ones that poets write about being HIGH,

Are the most fun to read and comment on,

I guess because they hit so close to home,

For this pot smoking, dope head with yearnings to roam…

I truly hope that there are no DEA agents out there,

Here to only spy,

On those of us that get high,

And sit here and tell the world of what they are doing,

For if they are, I am deep doo-doo,

Shit to those of you who do not comprehend,

Like the stuff I pick up in the yard,

After Rufuz does his thing, they are so hard…

Have no idea as to what I was saying,

There is that shortness of memory,

From doing drugs, coming back to haunt the many,

Oh well, time to do some more, what the hell, I can only die once,

If not of freezing my balls off,

Then of burning out my brain, what there is left of it,

And making my lungs a black hole of Calcutta,

Even though I don’t smoke anything other than the wackie weedie…

Sorry to ramble on & rant and rave,

But what the hell else have I got to do, to stave,

Off this constant cold feeling in my feetsies,

That permeates my entire body starting in my toes,

And working its way up to my lack of brains,

Burned out by the herb,

And not in a bottle, like a spice,

So before I go to far,

And bump you around like that of an old road made of tar,

I should really end here, as I could, in reality, continue on,

For the whole night, till the light, and heat of the sun,

Come back to awaken me to the utter rubbish I have been touting,

In this my most recent rant,

                                        rave,

                                         personal review,

                                          comment,

                                        etc, etc,

                                          ad infinitum….

                                                                        (ed)