May 2, Two Thousand Eleven!

Poor Prinz Charles Every breath, Emitting sparks out Of his ass As if like an old Rolls Royce automobile, Its polish shiny but Only by misguided hands Of adoration For past imagery, Now he hee hee Old, too, Noww all he ass is Cambridge rowing by Oxford dainties

All sneaking looks Towards the shore At the olde oldsters Remembering the shiny Others from time past Who now envy their youth, There they go racing by bye, Wave rowers at P. Charles, Still a ansome lad, some Being kind would say, Prevaricating.

To all cities, provinces especially little towns and villages perhaps even encampments of California, I apologize For my former adulation of San Francisco.

To celebrate my ignorance

Mourning greatness no matter The circumstances,

I will now listen to RUSSIAN Barbarians including those who orbit The insanity below, Kalinka RSRAC, versus an obscure duel Song of Mozart’s of Egyptian soldier priests.*

MAY YOU SERVE YOUR PASSED MUM & YOUR CITIZENS WELL. Be thankful, I am not.

JBPOETGARDENER to be emailed to newsbeat@bbc.co.uk who never ever printed any of mine, no doubt a "Yank" prejudice. *If two/ sung for your mother, by the singing female of yours surely you know the one. I dont associate with people in show business, I can be dull on my own.

*oops I meant the difficult female song from his..."The Magic Flute." It would be too difficult for her in front of those singing men, afterall we men are beasts.

my wee autobiography: Me momma married a somewhat handsome Czech blond and blue eyed, She of the cursed now supposedly United Kingdom, my crib was a straw laundry basket,

No Tesla electrician He worked for the Navy She worked for him.

I was a strange child waundering in my own mind, ugly as the back of a shovel, and terribly shy, mostly lacking , I assure you of smarts.

Which growing up, I assure you as well... I continually demonstrated.

Then I discovered alcohol at an early age, At a Czech reunion in Schulenberg, Texas. Eyeing the Catholic priest, winning At poker, I snuck up to the sea of ice Where brown bottles floated, one, Opened emitted an intoxicating fragrance, Drinking its contents, I discovered sin. My innocence sacrificed for decades.

Should you wish an alternative zen Try a kaloche ( mine made in Heaven by a blessed aunt, I still can fragrance the Tamarisk trees, Which slept within, their roots in sand, were as if schooner ships, beacons of green in the desert. (sometimes groups, prolific As Catholics or presently Muslims.

Once listening to the Mormon Tablenacle Choir, At the finish, an obvious rich voice of then called Negro Female served as exclamation point, Which is what God is, or spirit Or whatever the unknown factor is.

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Comments

JBPOETGARDENER May 2, 2011 @ 10:32 p.m.

When I was a wee lad, in Corpus Christi. Texas, city of my birthing, our family then including two other brothers, visiting our relatives on the Czech side and our grandfather, who worked barefoot at age 86, on houses remodeled within family, stepped on a protruding nail and died. The death of such a person in family is a sobering adventure of pain.

There near, I met a young female from England, name of Ann Pescod who lived in Harrow in Middlesex, we became pen pals, from her I completely comprehended, that the outer world contains other human beings.

However be aware, my romanticism hides an acid bitter tongue if need be, as charming as a snapped whip. jb

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