Didn't need to, didn't have a desire to follow it through
What is there after abuse? I must ask the caller of the truce
The shotgun to the cold turkey's head, abused, sonfused, dead
1999 . . . we're finally here . . . the final frontier, the last year . . . BLAH! FUCK! How many lamers out there are running for cover? This is "the end of time . . ." I mean, be for fucking real. OK, so I shouldn't really rag on these idiots too much, but FUCK being politically correct, I've done my time, I've served my country, now I'm just in it for the LIFE! This is 1999, and God Dammit motherfucker, I'm going to party like it is 19fuckin99. In most of the last ten years, by now (April 9) I had written about thirty poems . . . well, 1999 is different. So far (to date) there are less than a dozen. Oh well, we'll see what happens. Most of my efforts have been going towards improving this website and writing Docile Exile, so read that if you want to get the same chills running down your spine that my poetry usually sends.