A poem by: Ben Dunk. April 23, 1967.




Oíer the ranges of words I writ,

some of them became of note,

and the print lost was infinite,

of the paradoxical sort.


Look you see the papers,

in the religious chest of rock,

as the earth catches the capers,

of a man in my stock.


There are the true beginnings,

of my pulsating thought path.

only there are the twinnings,

of my true resources wrought.


For I did write the parlay

in my very hand alone

never did a Pitch-Charley,

teach my pen the song.


Who lyeth in wait for me,

Iíll tell them this for sure,

itís the poor-mans open-sesame,

that needs my apple of discord.