(Originally posted elsewhere/when.)
Living is a goodfunny way to be and it’s filled with words to play with. I like the wordplay fine and chewy and sometimes sweet and physicians say it’s harmless. I am not the Surgeon General. Generally speaking, I do not speak with surgeons. They tend to burst forth so like flowers drinking blood. Oh to bleed, to blossom, to bloom. These flowers can be pretty, but they need decay to be. Decay is light’s inversion twisted left at times. I like light, but not so much the late-spring sun. Still, I tan well. I do. It is my heritage to darken so. My genes come from the sea that we called ours. It was ours all ours. No middle ground about it. There certainly are islands though. On one such island lies my love. I love you, Bobby Darrin. You didn’t have to go and change your name. I love that Frenchman too who wrote that song for you. Oh Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Come share with me the Rockwellmilkshakelove of innocent days. Oh Bobby. Bobby. Life is sweet and you have gone away from singing of it. Our sea was full of dashing sharks for you to sing of. Why art thou lost upon our goldblue water?
I’ve been waiting Bobby all this time.