Drum On Your Drums, Batter

I Glory In This World Of Men And Women, Torn With Troubles, Yet Living On To Love And Laugh Through It All.

Arithmetic Is Numbers You Squeeze From Your Head To Your Hand To Your Pencil To Your Paper Till You Get The Answer.

I Take You And Pile High The Memories. Death Will Break Her Claws On Some I Keep.

Poetry Is The Capture Of A Picture, A Song, Or A Flair, In A Deliberate Prism Of Words.

And Even Now She Beats Her Head Against The Bars In The Same Old Way And Wonders If There Is A Bigger Place The Railroads Run To From Chicago Where Maybe There Is Romance And Big Things And Real Dreams That Never Go Smash.