Doesn't expecting the unexpected make the unexpected expected?

I gotta friend who spends his life, stabbing my picture with a bowie knife. Dreams of strangling me with a scarf, when my name comes up he pretends to barf.

Beauty walks a razors edge, someday I'll make it mine.

I don't know if I call myself a poet or not. I would like to, but I'm not really qualified to make that decision, because I come in on such a back door, that I don't know what a Robert Frost or a [John] Keats or a T.S. Eliot would really think of my stuff.

[Bob Dylan] was rarely tender and seldom reached out to anticipate another's needs.

I see the turning of the page, curtain rising on a new age, see the groom still waiting at the altar.

I'm mortified to be on the stage, but then again, it's the only place where I'm happy.