A Sonnett,
To Human Independence
She shall tolerate, with arms isly crossed,
The lowest rung of this life's long ladder.
On this street familiar she is still lost,
Absinthe ordbs gazing into forever.
His attention, elsewhere as is the case,
Most all the time remains like taste on lips.
Today's new lodger demands he make kaste,
No time like waiters who linger for lips.
Aside someday she shall set the kerchief,
That she could not forget he provided.
Hel'' be sitting as rigidly stiff,
like earth they're deffering spheres united.
Perhaps she sould in their life's time venture
A look on the other without sensure.
by George Christ
