May the Psychopomps find you on the bedpost before you lose your flavor:
Oh my dearest Elvis,
Keeper of my youthful hopes…
Conductor of my forefather’s souls…
I am sore and these are my afflictions:
for I have become derelict of dialect
and feral of barrels…
I struggle to understand
and my heart remains elusive in it’s searching…
Oh Nightjar! Oh Goat sucker! Oh New world whip-poor-will!
I can’t help it Elvis you know I can’t…
You tell can me it’s a shame how much
pleasure I take from baseball but
I gotta find solace somewhere…
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
10January2024
