My Woman I see my woman comin' She's walkin through the door I'll bet in just a minute, I'll be laying on the floor Cause I'm stuck here on this bar stool, without a place to hide And my woman keeps a-comin' Goodbye cruel wor-rld go-ood bye. When we were newly married, my darlin' told me "hon, Always be a good boy, don't ever try to run'". Then she shot a girl in Reno, just cause I said "Hi" Now my woman's getting closer, I think I'm go-ona-a' die. I bet you think I'm crazy and should run aw...

It was bitterly cold that winter day And the elderly fisherman bent to pray His hat was tattered, his coat was torn And these were the words he spoke, forlorn. "Oh I am a fisherman bent and grey With naught but a shanty in which to stay My only friend is the stormy sea Not even a family to care for me. I never laugh, And I never cry But sit in silence And wish to die. My mind is on heaven Please take me away Where the sea's never angry The clouds never gray." And even as he prayed His eyes se...

Well the autumn day was hazy I was feeling tired and lazy When my stomach got a hankering for ham But I checked inside my cupboard And like good Old Mother Hubbard It was empty - but for seven cans of spam. Well I pondered for a second Then aloud, I said I reckoned That I'd try it though it didn't look so great. But I sliced it thick and fried it Watched the grizzle cook inside it And I placed the thing upon a paper plate. It was brown around the edges But the center of the wedges Came alive ...

There were many stories circulating about Nichole. Some thought she was a witch, others tagged her as a whore; but nothing in her demeanor this day would indicate that she was either. In her early thirties, Nichole had 'appeared' in the destitute town of Webster three years ago. She kept mostly to herself, disappearing for three or four days, twice a year. Her absences were as mysterious as her presence and speculation about her was perhaps the only entertainment in the hillside town of less...

Out of the depth of senseless speech A half formed thought, yet out of reach. And a gleamings of the blurted thought Like ashes smoldering are soon forgot. So in comforting solitude To reconstruct this baser mood. To till the soil and plant it right, A hardier seed that will not blight. For many a seed sewn upon a rock Will neither yeild a shoot or stalk. And broadcast in haste Yeilds no fruit Just wasted words left destitute. Well formed words our thoughts should be Green and fresh as in a f...

Man's true identity Shrouded in mystery Enwreathed by Divinity Travels to eternity. A slave to society Whipped into conformity Plagued by poverty And war's calamity. Veiled in dark depravity Harboring great apathy His life is but a mockery For lack of self discovery.

There were many stories circulating about Nichole. Some said she was a witch, others tagged her as a whore; but nothing in her demeanor today would indicate that she was either. In her early thirties, Nichole had 'appeared' in Webster three years ago. She kept mostly to herself, disappearing for three or four days, twice a year. No one had ever seen her in any of the small town stores; she didn't have an obvious job and even her closest neighbors said she never had visitors. None, except for ...