If We Couldn't Laugh We Would All

Out Alone In The Winter Rain, / Intent On Giving And Taking Pain.

What Are We? Young Or New? We Must Be Something.

The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

We Dance Round In A Ring And Suppose, But The Secret Sits In The Middle And Knows.

Modern Poets Talk Against Business, Poor Things, But All Of Us Write For Money. Beginners Are Subjected To Trial By Market.