Guy was sitting there thinking about Poetry:
He Could be wrong:
But he thought, perhaps Formal Organization equals Bull Shit.
The Stars are Poetry and they look pretty random to his eyes,
They rain innuendo all over his head especially at night.
Metaphorical.
Figuratively.
Pride is a funny thing, How does it exist after you are dead?
How do things turn out in the end with out the influence of the moon?
Quarter To Two:
Guy Wryter
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