Yes, I know. I was surprised too. Yes, I've written a poem that I'll share with you. I might even suggest that it is not bad. 
It's shocking for me too. I'm sorry, I just had to add these. There not much funny beyond this point. Just this once, I'm going to nix the mix and get a little naked for you. Not really, you know, just in the 'Tada! Here are some deep emotions!" kind of way. This winter has been a time of getting it all out in that cold and snowy (and far too windy) air and feeling better for it. Hey, it might even be a good guessing game for you, see if you're in it!Cheers,
Merman
To Those Who Have Scorned Me
To you, my lost lamb
who saw something I didn’t
who knew the way
You, who saw that light ahead
A stern shepherd grasping an impervious cane
You, a stupid, stupid little lost lamb.
And to you, my emergency flare,
I saw Jesus in your eyes and in your bowed head
Jesus in your porch swing
in your open hand and guitar
in your pitcher of rum and rolled paper cigarettes
after midnight
under your shirt
in the small of my back
in the haze and headache
and hungover communion
I couldn’t tell who needed saving.
And to you, Mixtape Fantastic
quid pro quo pianos
electronics, quick quips
You, so quick to change the track
kick the beat
I kept up with your steps
I sweat, laughed, recited
memorized the steps
the turns and tempo changes
I shared your morning coffee
And to you, the Charleston South Carolina Cook,
You should know better, master chef,
than to twist your knife
so carelessly through bone
Especially when you’ve invited
them to dinner.
And to future scorners,
I will not believe
You
I will not dance to your drum
I will not believe your silence
Or your naked gospel
To you, my lost lamb
who saw something I didn’t
who knew the way
You, who saw that light ahead
A stern shepherd grasping an impervious cane
You, a stupid, stupid little lost lamb.
And to you, my emergency flare,
I saw Jesus in your eyes and in your bowed head
Jesus in your porch swing
in your open hand and guitar
in your pitcher of rum and rolled paper cigarettes
after midnight
under your shirt
in the small of my back
in the haze and headache
and hungover communion
I couldn’t tell who needed saving.
And to you, Mixtape Fantastic
quid pro quo pianos
electronics, quick quips
You, so quick to change the track
kick the beat
I kept up with your steps
I sweat, laughed, recited
memorized the steps
the turns and tempo changes
I shared your morning coffee
And to you, the Charleston South Carolina Cook,
You should know better, master chef,
than to twist your knife
so carelessly through bone
Especially when you’ve invited
them to dinner.
And to future scorners,
I will not believe
You
I will not dance to your drum
I will not believe your silence
Or your naked gospel
