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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=552870" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Flying Monkeys</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’m calling on you because I’m a wreck, <br>And I used to dream of becoming a professor when I<br>Jogged around the junked golf course<br>By the side of deep twilight, and the paltry swathed condominiums: <br>To tell you the truth, I haven’t loved too many women-<br>Mostly, I’ve been able to count them on two hands<br>And you rank right up there, <br>But now my legs are cold from drinking cheap rum: <br>Can you love a man without any fashion sense<br>Or social position? <br>A man terribly wounded in the dark of a fraternity’s<br>Pick-up truck, so he doesn’t even know where he’s<br>Hurt, but he just remembers you sometime in <br>North Central Florida before Halloween in that Asian<br>Restaurant joint now demolished on 13th street; <br>What the F-, now it flows- now it flows- I don’t<br>Yet have a bicycle or a home on an island, but give it time: <br>And the girl I neglected by dreaming of you has a new<br>House and better ways to make her living; <br>And this is not good, and now I don’t care to teach anything<br>To the living; but love me, if you will, in your time, <br>In the quieted spaces between the snows and your inevitable<br>Breast feedings- because I love you, <br>And it is the only thing that reoccurs to me every evening<br>As I chop down trees, oiling my joints and looking up from<br>Time to time to keep an eye out for flying monkeys….</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=552870" data-title="Flying Monkeys de Bret R. Crabrooke" data-description="I’m calling on you because I’m a wreck, 
And I used to dream of becoming a professor when I
Jogged around the junked golf course
By the side of deep twilight, and the paltry swathed condominiums: 
To tell you the truth, I haven’t loved too m..."></div>
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