Two Thousand and Seventeen

bum-sleeping-by-blek

 Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread,
In gutters flooded with a pestilence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

Listen as men of no consequence said,
As golden tongues lick in malevolence,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread.

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April Madness I

The Deanery

Your breath of stale tobacco,

And mine of a sour red wine,

My floor show of cheap Bordeaux,

And yours of old man’s decline.

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