Now given the power to write,
I know not what my brain might
produce. Oh, the perilous plight
of having an account day and night!
Angry and sullen, happy and gay (come on, this is poetry here)
With a keyboard and idea I say
whatever, but I must fear the way
the ban-hammer will drop
when Erick will no longer prop
me up and to an audience give
terrible poetry. The Resurgent, long live!