This is what I do, & not meeting in the middle

Tell me a story.
Commensurate with the falderal I've been feeding you all of late.
Keep your private parts mostly hidden.
And don't make it a love story.
That's for damn sure.

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may

We could gorge ourselves on clever distractions,
since that's what I'm going to do one way or another.
I don't reform. It's better if I don't understand things.
But I mask it well, right?

Old Bull Lee had ADHD
And couldn't write shit compared to me
all this online Blogetry
pastichin' his way from Tangiers to the Sea
(the city beneath) where they pay you in tea
Save me the trouble,
I'll write it for free

Maybe God is homesick. He doesn't know where heaven is, buried in a million pieces, places he never wanted to go, hoping to find a way back.
Maybe that's why we find beauty in the small things. Just forgetting our past makes you sexy.
Makes my cheeks whet with curiosity. Speaking of, tongues. Lashing out towards a culmination, with the lay of home.  Some sort of promise, not a compromise of consumer electronics. I don't even have a TV anymore.  Let that be your ray of hope.

Tell me a story?
See what happens.

River glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses [...]sleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

End it real cute.
But don't make it a love story.
That's for damn sure.
That's for damn sure.