“THE MYSTIC POET CRIES HIMSELF 2 SLEEP AT NIGHT.” a poem 23 Nov 2019 [Saturday]
Women hate me; men despise me,
For I write ThePoet ry;
Children, even infants, loathe me
AsIdeclareTheTRUTH? I’m on a spree?
Talking MONEY GOD and S _ X;
Even God wants to cast “a hex,”
Upon my head. I’mJust: Cowboy Tex.
And all the porn girls PLACE “an X,”
Onto my vicious, heinous mug,
Wishing to squish me like a stinky bug,
Just ’cause Yeah. I like to write,
And CRY and HIDE and NEVER fight;
But girls avoid my shiny toy,
By NEVER talkin’ or glancin’ my way,
And NOW onThisHere ArtWalk Day,*
I STROLL CROWDED STREETS TO SELL SOME ART,
PULLING ON MY LITTLE CART,
BEGGING FOR FOOD AND ASKING: “PLEASE,
BUY A PIECE OF ART FROM THE LIKES OF MEs.” (pause)
But I’m abhorred with no hope in sight;
The Mystic Poet criesThroughTheNight.
– a special weekend in Alpine, Texas, U. S. A., where people come FROM AROUND THE WORLD to (1) NOT buy my paintings or prints . . . or origami . . . and (2) NOT listen to my poetry. AND (3) threaten me with bodily harm. AND (4) NOT buy me a small cup of coffee (cough, cough . . . eeee) to stem the progress of certain death, due to starvation, neglect and disappointment. Le Sigh. 🙂 – I’m just kiddin’ :O – No, you’re not. :I – Yes, I am. 🙁 – You stink. 🙂 – No, I don’t. 😮 – Loser. :@beatrizjung