Bogs Is Truly Awful
Bogs Is Truly Awful !
Cold like old man bony
the wind whooshes,
through impudent rushes
empty, stony, hungry
It's special beauty
melancholic,
making wretched poetry
The night skys velvet
torn to shreads
you there
stumbling woefully
Your two pale feet
turning brown, brown
as Sunday gravy
And now you come to
understand
Bogs ain't for man,
the sad or even crazy,
bogs is best appreciated
(no matter what
you're told)
by poets
and the lonely
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