I Like My Grass

Having everything
together seems
way and
far
too
boring,
for puzzles
and
conundrums
and
confusion
are the
tongue and
the teeth
and the
mouth
of the
mind,
if
your
brain
does not
thirst
or has
no
hunger,
you are
a robot,
nothing
more than
a walking
mannequin,
a dead
soul,
stuffed with
dollar
bills
waiting
on
your
casket,
your face
is like
a preface,
it tells
me
how
miserable
you
are,
and even
in the
pangs
of
poverty,
my eyes
are not
as dark
as
yours,
and yes
your grass
is green,
but the
dung
and
the
toil,
will chew
and eat
your
soul
with
nary
a
qualm,
I think
I like
my
grass