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My love is like a thing that goes
Up and down inside my toes;
It climbs around inside of me
And falls asleep in my ice tea.
My hate is like a flower that grows
And writes real bad, decrepit prose
That wilts the soul and perhaps the spirit
And borders often on incoherent.
My mind alas is quite insane,
A fact I need not more explain,
For I can see all things that be,
All things that were, all things to be.
I hear the voice of God all day;
He really doesn’t have much to say.
He says it’s so lonely at the top;
He talks all the time; I wish He’d stop.