A poem, by Cypress Butane
The televicious toothed bouncer who
Prowls the fringe outlyings of this club
Always makes me feel better
When they talk me down all bout
How why not I’m never getting in
Despair, she is not politic
And if you want to hang around hear
You find the means to wash your face,
And smile big, lay it on thick
You sew the rags you bind your self up in
From the remains of the day
And you thank the lord for paving your way
To lay down where you may
And if the sky seems grayer out than usual
On your excursions through the night
And if you feel a cold wind blowing hard
And catch a thrill of fright
Just remember velvet linings
That somewhere there’s a dream
That you yourself contribute
That you yourself hold dear
The Haunted Typewriter 