to a fallen pretender of fame
came ugly suggestions of blame
	a life sent to hell
	a knife lent to tell
that the winners do not play the game

control of the hovering blame
is graced by a cigarette shame
	an empty motel
	a strangeness to tell
of a cheap night at home with the game

shaking in the hands of the blind
i dropped like a frown on your kind
	hundreds of dollars a day
	spent on the gins of Bombay
for the hot, sinking sponge of your mind

a grim disagreement of greed
saw a firm resolution of creed
	the catholics complained
	the mormons refrained
and the garbagemen came for your seed

letters from children to God
suggest that the questions are broad
	a child of 5 asks
	what reality masks
and thinks that it may be a fraud

it‘s good to be home with the young
when the grasp of conceptions is strong
	i think of you two
	when corpses come to
in the placid dismay of the wrong