The pain inane strikes through my head.
I try to sleep, I try to rest.
But pain has come, with all the rest.
It came along furtively,
Singing a song brutally.
Yet it is leaving with all its woes,
With dark tongue singing prose.
¿Por que si claro, por que!
¡Yo no hablo español?
Too late for Advil®, too late for caffeine,
But all is well, except for, well,
This poem condemned by my inkwell, to hell¿
Non, attente! C'est retourné!
Copyright © 2002 by Professor-Reverend Lo' James d;e Cronhower-Avery Esq. Jsr. Ph.D. the Grate -III.5