The rose con, verse is with Lou C. Feuer
Well, hell. Oh! Old Scratch it’s been years since we
last spoke. Though I have won dirt, been pruned
to my sole stem, strewn blown buds on doubt full
soil, it’s still a gas to see you’re all ways the old piss
toll to whom we each have to pay our due. Like the ant,
her path to a scent more dream than real, I nosed your fear,
a moan at times and hoped it was not the old heave in
you had planned for me.
So I want damn! Hey! shun you (speak to me)my dear
one, now the lawn is wet with dew,(stay man and list
for me my own charms), and I am gone to seed.
For it’s a crown of canes that wind with the cirque
of bit or herb, my pet all we are, your inn’s true
men tall stalks for the thorn. But I want you to know
there was too much rue in, my guard in bloom less
when I be leaved in a world with out he rose.
peace
bttt