drawn like Enoch in a chariot of fire
They came with a strange diagnosis
I wonder why I couldnít marry the Presidentís wife
My old darling who loved me like her gold box
And returns of her seventh fancy flights
The mad one may be peculiar, often saner than priests
What did they not say of our black Rasputin
Whose Nostradamus sight forsaw
The unprintable misery of our fair-haired living
The king buried the albino straight up
So he wouldnt come again with his strange pigment.
The hunch back had his knob chopped for herbal cure
In the perfection of strange errors and recidivism
I suppose there may not be rain
Without clouds, storms, thunder and lightning.
The earth is endlessly dark barnishing light and laughters.