I shot a beaver in my youth
who cursed me with this curse
My teeth
will be your poems now
remembering our gift unused
grows fatal to the brain
I shot a beaver in my youth
who cursed me with this curse
My teeth
will be your poems now
remembering our gift unused
grows fatal to the brain
Mary had a little lab
his coat was dirt and roll
and everywhere that Mary went
he wagged his smile behind her