Start a fund, tap on the glass. Pressed palms to the windows,
exquisite sonnets for ending, five lines for pride, five lines wished death of pride.
Consternation among the keepers. Papa hasn’t lauded his one testicle in days.
Recently I was asked about the title of my site. Seeing it might soon be a thing of the past, I felt I should come clean with it, and say it's primarily from a poem I wrote a few years ago. Zoo the last few writers in a bad habitat together, like the wild paper seraglio.
Start a fund, tap on the glass. Pressed palms to the windows, exquisite sonnets for ending, five lines for pride, five lines wished death of pride. Consternation among the keepers. Papa hasn’t lauded his one testicle in days.
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L.S. Burton
![]() Lee Burton doesn't have cats or kids, but he does have a lot of books, a couple of mugs he thinks are really fantastic, and a good pair of shoes which haven't fallen apart yet despite his best efforts to murder them with kilometers.
Burton has written almost six books. Almost six as some are still scantily clad in their respective drawers. Each of them had their own goals and were written differently, and he is very fond of them all -- except perhaps for his first attempt at a novel, which remains a travesty. That one he keeps locked in a dark basement and feeds it fish heads. In 2011, Burton won the Percy Janes Award for Best Unpublished First Novel in the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Competition for his novel Raw Flesh in the Rising. And just recently, in the fall of 2013, Burton published his first science-fiction novel, THIS LAND, about which he boasts constantly. Available at Amazon
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