For a loaf of bread, I'll write
a ghost story, an epic yarn
that ultimately only serves to warn
a beggar of peddling poems for Christ.

For a measly oat, a crumb of yeast,
I'll drop dead men's old oaths like bombs
and desecrate eroded tombs -
sacrilegious tattoos across my chest.

Farewells

Come sit my friend, we'll share a pint,
And by the fire, bequeath a mint,
To stories old, to friends now gone, and debts unpaid,
To foes, and blood, and those girls in plaid,
And then we'll weep, and fall asleep, and sleep until the noon,
And in our sleep, forget the woe, and see each other soon.

(The last rhyme isn't an eye-rhyme. I thought it would be nice to end this poem on a bit of consonance)

The bathroom's charm in a university hall through,
Taking your sandals off in the shower stall, shoe's toed,
Another person hair, disgustingly seen, but an experience to slough,
Welcome to a new type of bathroom: coed!

Back to the club I have come,
Arcona, I am home.
Sith I am as I breathe and move,
For these Jedi, I have no love.