I Am Writing These Poems From Inside

Never Explain What You Do. It Speaks For Itself. You Only Muddle It By Talking About It.

Let Us Leave This Place Where The Smoke Blows Black And The Dark Street Winds And Bends. Past The Pits Where The Asphalt Flowers Grow We Shall Walk With A Walk That Is Measured And Slow, And Watch Where The Chalk-white Arrows Go To The Place Where The Sidewalk Ends.

Since My Fried Left Me,i've Got Nothing To Do But Walking.i Walk To Forget.i Walk,i Escape,i Get Further.my Friend Will Not Come Back,now I Am A Marathon Man.

Talked My Head Off Worked My Tail Off Cried My Eyes Out Walked My Feet Off Sang My Heat Out So You See, There's Really Not Much Left Of Me.

Oh I'm Lookin' For My Missin' Piece I'm Lookin' For My Missin' Piece Hi-dee-ho, Here I Go, Lookin' For My Missin' Piece