Too plastered to die yet  ,-)

There is in Joyce’s “Dubliners” a story

of a man found dead on the loo of a pub

(dead from boozing, it is a pub after all.)

So I thought, while I am at it:

let’s rap and ramp down

the fear of death and

instead ramp up the joy of being alive


Baby, be my maybe baby,

be the sweetest stanza 1

of my best poem, talking love.



Maybe I’m amazed by the Faces

quoting the lyrics soothin me:

Baby, I’m a man, oh baby
I’m a lonely man who’s in the middle of something
That he doesn’t really understand
Baby, I’m a man, oh baby
You’re the only woman that could ever help me
Baby, won’t you try to understand

Thank you for your love, babydarling!