artikulation .01a

Such a man,
Who has no words,
A man in whom,
No tune does stir,
Such a man,
Is good as dead,
Who lives inside,
An empty head,
For life is made,
To be spat out,
The joy and pain,
Are cause to shout,
And never should,
The cries of man,
Be buried deep,
Beneath the sand,
So hear this scream,
Of living breath,
Of live that lives,
And knows no death,
Of life that weeps,
And life that sings,
That soars and dives,
On outstretched wings,
And even when,
Life's had enough,
When times are hard,
And life gets rough,
There's still so much,
To shout about,
So open up,
And spit it out.