As beautiful as heaven,
Just like a butterfly.
They fly around like rain drops
Filling up the bright blue sky.
You draw you self away from them,
Come crashing down to earth
They float into the atmosphere
And disconnect from worth
There’s nothing to do, There’s nothing to see
There’s no where to go, There’s no where to be
I’m just sitting alone, In this empty room
Writing my poem, I’m over the moon
The most important service rendered by the press and the magazines is that of educating people to approach printed matter with distrust. — Samuel Butler