There was a crooked man . . .

There was a crooked man
Who laid a crooked floor
And never held his problems
Behind his crooked door

He spread them all about
For others who would pore
Upon them and around them
And on lonesome nights they swore

That for being dragged inside of
all his stories and his scores,
All his issues, fears and lies
And all his hopes and all his whores

And for never asking back
And for never acting bored
And for never really asking
Much of anything at all.

But when he couldn’t cotton
His own soundtrack, his own lore
He took a flying leap down
From the 37th floor.

The janitors that found him
The women and the boys
Surprised to find him straightened
Out and straightened without gore.

The only thing they reckoned
The only parts that tore
Were rectum, heart and tongue
As well as stories told no more.

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