I Decided I Would Go To Chicago

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

A Liar Goes In Fine Clothes, A Liar Goes In Rags, A Liar Is A Liar, Clothes Or No Clothes.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

Who Am I, Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?