More to come tomorrow.

More to come tomorrow.

There is much to avoid

Or face head-on

It is often a choice

To be entertained

Or not.

The view from your eyes

Is more refined than mine

The rough kids play

With sharp sticks

Armies are made of this

All the President's men

Are paper-thin

Folded away

Brought out on Sunday’s

To fill column inches

March in time

Shake me up

Smile a little smile

For me.

It makes my day

To see freckles

There is something about them

Honest to a fault

Maybe not

But I have yet to be fooled

By the sparkle

In your eye

The scent of your neck

The touch of your lips

They are

A world of difference

To behold.