I Roll My Own Tobacco And Her Urine Sounds Poem by James McLain

</> Blue hands and crying in the rain.
Perhaps that was the missing capital letter.
The poet of the best female where they were.
And she I was the publisher, the editor, her.
She was lunatic on tequila she is my magic I print on.
There is no lie of the there her fire.
The woman who does not touch the photograph
of the other woman such class where he never.
The human range of love which at my age you write,
and like it, I loved it on the desk.
When it sits down in the small room.
I roll my own tobacco and her urine sounds as if mine.
Two commodes side by side in the bathroom.
Exchanging dreams
from the day before both hear your story, it didn't happen,
it probably never will love each of us more or less more.
You after the letter became sadder.
Your sweetheart I watched you betrayed.
The child, I betray all sweethearts, you wrote.
The help of that didn't come.
There was a bench which you said and.
Great pleasure it gave you a gift from Paris water shoot up.
I shout at you as I did when we were by the bridge.
After you committed suicide I drank a few beers.
Took out my favorite panties and the pregnancy test said.
That this way was the best way the only way I had left.