April, 2007 Young poets write of true love's kiss, And older ones of ripe love's bliss; Heroic acts urge war-like lines, While drunks write odes to hops and vines; The maudlin soul entreats with death; The sick man's pen begs one more breath; But great affairs (and even small) Don't enter in my thoughts at all. For just today, amidst The Draft, my breath was stopped, my saneness halfed, My palms went moist, my eyesight troubled, my speech undone, my heart-rate doubled; All life became a static hiss - For what are life's cares, next to this? For death could come for me tonight, and take me - smiling! - with no fight. And on my stone, these words emboss: The Patriots got Randy Moss!