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Poem	Oh, she was sad, oh, she was sad. She didn't mean to do it. Certain thrills stay tucked in your limbs, go no further than your fingers, move your legs through their paces, but no more. Certain thrills knock you flat on your sheets on your bed in your room and you fade and they fade. You falter and they're gone, gone, gone. Certain thrills puff off you like smoke rings, some like bell rings growing out, out, turning brass, steel, gold, till the whole world's filled with the gonging of your thrills. But oh, she was sad, she was just sad, sad, and she didn't mean to do it.
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