I Have Given Up Considering Happiness As

What Is, Is, And What Might Have Been Could Never Have Existed.

There Was A Young Lady Named Mae Who Smoked Without Stopping All Day; As Pack Followed Pack, Her Lungs First Turned Black, And Eventually Rotted Away.

I Tend To Be Rather Inconsequential And Trail Off.

The Suicide, As She Is Falling, Illuminated By The Moon, Regrets Her Act, And Finds Appalling The Thought She Will Be Dead So Soon.

Books, Cats, Life Is Good.