Where is that gentle man, that gentle soul?
I miss his humour, his wit, his escapades,
The travels, his romances in orient,
Neith magnolia or cherry blossom tree,
I wonder where that scoundrel went,
Explore the dark side of the moon did he?
The very last time I heard from him it was lend.
Darn I told him often, of the poison brew of his,
But he said it helped him piss,
And at first he mentioned about his breathing,
I thought he was being funny, and just teasing,
For heavy breathing he did often,
That ridged digit soften,
I think its murder, or its suicide, that happened,
Those Swedish nurses I suspect, they did him in,
I think he left us happy in the end,
That’s unless he does relent, and straighten our confusion,
For all we know, he had a slight contusion,
From fiddling with the nurses bum,
Behind bars he is that derelict,
Playing cards or chess with God, and cheating,
Yikes, the things I could imagine,
I best not tell,
Na, did he get caught?
When with ace of spades was leading,
And now he sits in hell,
Best I think we sign petitions,
To free him just in case,
To tell that guy up there he is our friend,
A saint and poet to the end,
To share some love with him, and show some mercy,
We all vouch for him, from Red, to Brothers Ed, Eileen, and all, and Percy.©21/11/2010
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I miss his humour, his wit, his escapades
So do I, my friend; so do I. And I can't understand why his spouse or another family member won't return any of our messages and tell us what's happened to him.
Mark Lichterman
Be well,
Christine