I could sit this one out

It's tough to sit when you're a player. I was going to sit this blog out tonight...but something...possibly the rusty muse...told me to get off my ass and write. Why, I'm seldom sure. I saw a robin today and now I'm wondering if the ground has warmed up enough so that the worms will be able to poke out so that they can become the robin's sustenance. There's so much I don't know. For one, do robin's only eat worms. For two, do worms freeze during winter and then do they thaw out just to become some fat bird's food. For three, what do worms eat. For four, do they really eat shit. For five, why am I thinking about hamlet. For six, is there a god. For seven, do robins and worms go to heaven. For eight, do cannibals after consuming a human being ever proclaim that they just ate a cock. For nine, did the cock ever crow nine times. For ten, I wonder what possesses me to write.
For eleven, is there any pain in being a flower. For twelve, I don't understand how this makes a dozen. For thirteen, do people ever read wallace stevens anymore. For fourteen, why stop. I'm glad you asked, because I was just about ready to tell you to shut the fuck up. I was about ready to say so, but so is so...so predictable. As is anyway. So and anyway are cop out words. So what you may be thinking, or anyway, it must be time for bed. Bed is a cop out too. Unless of course you're a worm frozen beneath a flower bed, or a robin, or a cannibal or an insomniac.