a weary blues
Here's the bit. No bread, no Ted
--Ted Joans (frequently)
in that small
apartment
which I
never
visited
you
bit
it,
buddy,
took
it
on the chin
went kaplooey
Ted:
Dead.
what a bum
rap
I see a man
who cant
talk
cant
walk
cant
say
anything
to
himself
or
others
and, man,
that's
the
poet:
you.
No one to sing us
no one to swing--
man, you gotta
get with it,
you gotta--
I'm with it, Ted.
No breath,
No death.
DEaTh