When I grew up, I tried to use my words,
spewed them from spoken to heard.
But they fell out like ugly music and flat champagne.
So with that we toasted abilities of the insane
and loyalties of the dead at the filthy brink
of the secrets we eat and the messes we drink.
Gowns and tuxedos floated charmingly by
but pearls and diamonds had no draw for mine eye.
Then with golden ales and foaming brews,
I let my lips fly with things about truths—
those were ugly green stories in oak tree waves
so after midnight toasts, I was branch-bound for days.
In the new year I remembered my words—
I fought to prove them truths to be heard.
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