February 16th, 2003 - 12:55 a.m.

A sappy poem in pseudo-American style. (Imagine twangy blues music playing from dusty amp interspliced with harmonica chords.)

I spent lover's day in the nut house, babe.
But I spent it thinking of you.
In between the razor blades crusted with rusty dew.
Tsunami thoughts of dreary spots begin to take hold of me.

Ah, I spent lover's eve in the nut house, babe.
But I spent it thinking of you.
Betwixt the bites of painted alabaster custard,
And stretchy vegetable stew.

Of course in your arms I'd rather.
Then accompanied by meds consuming my liver.
The more I am fed, the more it is said, that I shall get better and better and better.

But at this rate, without debate, I shall be unsated without your love post haste.

N.

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