You may have thought White Male Poet and the blog were dead. I thought as much also too. What with the deep red throat and the pink eyes. I was nearly blind singing the blues with a limp limb and eyelashes disappearing at a rapid pace. One or two a day. But then I went and got me a little lady, a nice housewife to take care me real good. She don't care if I'm a monster or come home past dark. Gets me dressed up real good like a gent for the A's. Signs my marriage contract (thanks Bill). Makes me carrot soup and crab legs. This is the story of how a White Male Poet is Reborn. It's one for the ages.

Thanks to Mr. Nicoloff aka Sausage Eater for the spurring. He caught me hibernating, playing the feminine fool. You see, I was hiding from them Internet Ghosts, them attacks on each other and ourselves because I was afraid, yes, I admit it. I even wept. I behaved like a vegetal or soggy bread products. But I never lost faith. I knew that as soon as my recovery was in full effect I would again dig into my peers with all the SELF-RIGHTEOUS and BELLIGERENT energy I could muster. So here I am. Betta stay on my good side else I'll smote you. Make you a weepy lyric salve, no joke.


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