the pub - and the computer - dont mix

As good as dead.

Oh?
Your twenty five?
but
Your poems
are so immature.

They are all about

little
Things
That
Don’t
Matter.

Say the critics

Wow,
They say,
Your twenty five?
I cant belive your poems
Are all about
Your self
When you were a kid

Say the strangers

Come on ben,
Its not that bad,
Stop pretending to be a drunk
And grow up

Says my girl

You should write a book,
And sing it from the
Mountains

Say my mates

You really need
A glass
Of harden the fuck up,

Say the drunks at the pub

they are the smartest ones.