Writing Little Man. April 30, 2013 You look like your father, You talk like the rain, Hands clinched like a slingshot, All colors, no grain. Glass on the floor, Don’t touch it, its hot! Each day, same as before, Whether we’re ready or not. Further Reading... This could get ugly. Poetry, “The Last Rites of Girls” Return of the Hutt: Writer’s Ass Revisited No Comments Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment.