pitchers tuck by buddy don: a dancin butterfly on rollerskates

whenver i wuz 11 year ole, i writ a pome, witch i wood give good money fer a copy of it. twuz a life changin eevent fer me on a counta frum that instunt till now, i knew i wonted to be a riter. i probly shoulda stuck to one kinda ritin, but i couldnt do that. i had to try ever kinda ritin thay is: pomes, short stories, novellas, novels, screenplays, stage plays, songs, essays, yew name it, i tride it. i also writ musick n whenever i gut a camra, twuz a nuther way of ritin down whut i seen of the worl, witch thay aint no two fotogruffers that takes the same pitchers.

innywho, todays pitchers frum that dance parade me n miz bd stumbled on tuther day putts me in mind of that pome on a counta twuz about how happiness is lack a butterfly, witch ye caint force it to land on ye, but ifn ye sit still, it mite jes cum by n smile on ye. (i know, tiz a lame metafor, but twuz new to me at the time.)









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