I know the sound ahead of me.
I know it very well.
It is that slippery road,
Descending straight into Hell.

Why in this life,
that used to be swell,
has become so much
like a living Hell?

Rough are the words
I write for thee.
Covering many subjects
for you and me.
Where do these words
come into line?
From out of the depth
where words are entwined,
from the tip of my toes
to the depth of my Soul,
entertaining you and others,
has always been my goal.

Oh you poor little slug,
you're not an insect,
nor are you a bug.
You'll chew all the leaves
of the colorful Primrose.
Would you please stop,
or is it anything goes?
Out comes the Sluggo
or the grey goop Deadline,
to keep you from eating
those pretty flowers of mine.